The Puzzle Box
by Jennifer Lee
Summary: This story takes place two years after TMR. Spoilers for both films. The Key ends up in the hands of someone from Rick's past, and it's the beginning of a whole new adventure. All chapters are now up. Thank you for reading!
1. Margaret

"Goodbye, Mismeg

Disclaimer: "The Mummy," "The Mummy Returns" and characters therein are owned by Stephen Sommers and Universal Pictures. Margaret Crane, Grandfather, and various "bit-parts" are my own creation.

***

"Goodbye, Mismeg!"

"See you later, Mismeg!" The children all chattered variations on this as they ran from the small classroom and out into the heat of the Cairo afternoon. Margaret smiled, waving to them as they all scattered. She sighed a long and contented sigh, stretching to unkink her back from hours of bending over little desks. Friday afternoons here were much the same as Friday afternoons in the West: no school for two days. The children ran a little faster on Fridays, eager to start their games.

She straightened up the books and papers on her desk, and moved to erase the blackboard. Before she did so, she looked at the board for a few moments in satisfaction. It may have been covered in childish scrawls, but they were childish scrawls of _English_ words. _English_ sentences, and the minds that controlled those little hands understood every one of them. And that was because of her. Whenever she wondered what her life was really worth, why she should go on, this formerly frightened orphan who had grown into an equally frightened adult, she thought on those little hands writing words in English. And she felt better about herself.

With the classroom now cleaned up, Margaret locked the door behind her and stepped out into the late afternoon sun. She quickened her step as much as the oppressive heat would let her, adjusting her sun hat as she walked. She'd promised the curator that she would be at the Museum of Antiquities by half-past three, and she was already running a little late. The tourists would be kept waiting, and the curator never liked that. _Of course, he could always find someone else to do the translating for him_, she thought. But that wouldn't happen, she knew; there were few people in Cairo who spoke French, Arabic, and English as fluently as she did. And fewer still who would be willing to translate for as little money as Dr. Stuart paid her. She took a moment to check the pocket-watch pinned to her blouse, and hurried a little faster.

***

Rick O'Connell took a deep breath, feeling the hair on the back of his neck prickle as he walked over the threshold of the museum. It had been over a decade since he last stepped into this building. The last time, he'd been on the run from a reincarnated ancient Egyptian priest, bent on killing everyone he knew, including a very pretty young woman he'd just met. Times had certainly changed: that pretty young woman was now his wife, and Imhotep had been put back in his grave, not once but twice. Shaking off thoughts of the past, he strode to the museum office, looking for the curator. He passed a small group of tourists, led by a young woman in a long, sandy colored skirt and white blouse. She appeared by all accounts to be American, which was why O'Connell was so surprised to hear fluent Arabic flowing out of her mouth as she pointed at various artifacts in a glass case.

He moved a little closer, almost staring at the woman. She looked so familiar, while at the same time he had no idea who she was. She was pretty enough, in a quiet kind of way; there was nothing about her that particularly drew the eye. He wasn't close enough to see the color of her eyes, but her hair was light- almost like brown that had been sun-bleached blonde. And still, he felt as though he knew her somehow. Where had they met? 

As if she felt his gaze, the young woman looked up, straight in his direction. Her narration faltered a bit as she stared right back at him. A small wrinkle creased her brow. _She recognizes me too_, Rick thought. She held his eyes for a moment longer, then with a slight blush returned to her group, and her story about Ramses. Confused and a little intrigued, he continued on to Dr. Stuart's office. The sooner he could get this business over with and get the hell out of Cairo, the better.

***

Margaret was not the kind of woman that men stared at; she knew that. She was plain; her eyes and her hair were both too light, they lacked the color that made women attractive. Which was why she was so flustered when she noticed that man staring at her from across the museum entryway. Thankfully, the small group of tourists she was leading didn't notice a thing, and she was able to finish the tour in relative peace. She spoke Arabic like a native, and she had given this museum tour countless times. Both of these factors allowed her to keep her mind occupied elsewhere during the tour. Who was that man? Why was he looking at her like he knew her? She also didn't understand the feeling she'd had when their eyes had first met: joy, mingled with something else…relief? It was as if she knew him, but in a split second, the recognition was gone.

__

It doesn't matter anyway, she thought as she bid farewell to the group she had just taken around the museum. She accepted the coins they pressed into her hand with a grateful smile, slipping them into her reticule after they had gone. She looked again at the watch she wore pinned to her blouse. It was nearly time to bring Grandfather his tea. She would just check in with Dr. Stuart, and then she would go.

The door to the curator's office stood half-closed. She could hear voices coming from within. She tapped lightly on the door to announce her presence, and peeked around the door. Dr. Stuart looked up from some papers on his desk.

"Yes, yes, child, come in." He stood and waved her inside the small office. Margaret stepped in, and immediately realized he was not alone. In the chair on the other side of the desk, just getting to his feet as she entered the room, was the man from earlier. The one who had looked at her. Again, she felt sheer joy at seeing him and she had no idea why. He was exceedingly handsome; there was no question of that. But that wasn't the reason. She had trouble with her voice for a moment, and had to clear her throat.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, Doctor. But I've finished the tour, and there are no other guests today. So if you have no further use for me, I'm going to…"

"Of course, Margaret." The curator turned to the strange man with a smile. "Margaret here is a lifesaver. I can't speak a word of that bloody Arabic, and she's perfectly fluent."

"So I saw." The man gave her a gentle smile, which flustered her even more. She dropped her eyes, noticing his wedding band. He was married, then. _As if you had a chance with him anyway. Get your head back on straight, girl!_

Dr. Stuart shook his head. "Where are my manners? Margaret, this is Mr. Rick O'Connell. His wife is Dr. Evelyn O'Connell, who runs the British Museum. He is here in her stead to bring a shipment of acquisitions back to London for their Ancient Egypt exhibit. Rick, this is Miss Margaret Crane; as I said before, she is my most able interpreter."

Instead of taking his hand, Margaret clutched her midsection, almost as if she'd been struck. Her other hand grasped the edge of the curator's desk. "_Rick_ _O'Connell?_" Her mind spun. Could it be? Could it really be? After all this time? She took a couple of steps towards him.

Rick nodded slowly, stepping towards her too. Something was dawning in his eyes, she could see it. Automatically, her eyes darted to his right wrist. He wore a brown leather brace there; she couldn't see what she was looking for. Almost unbidden, her hands reached for the brace, unbuckling it and drawing it off before either man could ask what she was doing. When she had done so, both she and Rick stared down at his arm, at the elaborate tattoo that was there. She traced the edge of it with one finger.

"It really is you." She looked up at him, pale gray eyes shining with tears. He looked down at her for a moment more, than all confusion suddenly fled from his face.

"_Meg?_" He grasped both her shoulders and looked full into her face. "Little Meg?" She could almost feel his eyes peeling away the past seventeen years, turning her into who she used to be: a timid eleven year old girl in Cairo's orphanage. For she had been eleven the last time she had seen Rick O' Connell: a brash eighteen-year old leaving the confines of the orphanage, bent on adventure. To him, the walls had been confining, but to her, they had come to mean safety. Her own eighteenth birthday had seen her leave the orphanage, take one look at the outside world, and run right back inside, ensconcing herself in the mission where she remained to this day.

But none of that mattered right now. With a short burst of surprised laughter, Rick drew the trembling woman into a close hug.

"So you've met, then?" Dr. Stuart asked dryly, reminding them of his presence. Rick released Margaret, but held her at arm's length and continued to study her face.

"Yeah." He answered Dr. Stuart's question, but didn't take his eyes away from Margaret. "We grew up together. What are you still doing in Cairo?" he asked, turning his attention back to her.

"Where else would I go?" Margaret shrugged and tried to turn her answer into a little joke, but her smile was small, her eyes downcast. Where indeed? An orphan with no family: where was there a place in the world for her?

"But I thought for sure you'd…" Rick broke off suddenly and looked over his shoulder. He seemed to abruptly remember that he was actually at the museum on business, and not for this unexpected reunion. "Have dinner with me, Meg. We have so much to catch up on."

"Of course…no, I can't!" Rick did a double take at her contradictory answer. She gave him a chagrined smile. " I'm sorry, but I have a prior commitment this evening. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow? How long will you be in Cairo?"

"Probably another week." Rick glanced once more at the curator. "We have to sort through this stuff I'm taking back to London. It could take a few days."

"Tomorrow it is, then," Margaret smiled. "Shall I meet you here?" Rick nodded. "I really must go. I'm late as it is." As amazed as she was to see Rick again, Grandfather was waiting for her.

Rick clasped her hand one more time, almost assuring himself that she was real. "Meg, I'm…it's so good to see you again." Margaret blushed a little at the compliment, ducked her head in an almost-curtsy, and left the office without another word. Both men watched her go before turning their attention back to the business they had been discussing.


	2. Grandfather and the Puzzle Box

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Dusk filled the skies as Margaret once again found herself hurrying down the street. She hurried everywhere today, it seemed. No matter what she did, she was always a little late. But at that moment, she didn't care. Her mind was full of what had just happened at the museum. Rick O'Connell! Her memory flew back years to her first appearance at the orphanage. She was six years old and scared to death. It had been Rick, a big thirteen-year old boy with tousled brown hair and big blue eyes, that had helped her understand what was going on. He knew why she was there, and explained it to her in plain terms; he didn't use any of that "God's will" or "the will of Allah" talk that everyone else did. He just told her the truth: her parents were dead, and no one was coming for her. The words were harsh, but they were what she needed to hear. And in the weeks and years after her arrival, he had become family to this little girl who had lost everything. Until he'd left, of course.

She rounded the corner and the hotel was in sight. She sighed happily. Grandfather was waiting for her. Did she have a story to tell him tonight! Her eyes drifted to the third floor balcony that she knew led to his sitting room. 

She suddenly stopped walking and looked up at the balcony, dismayed. An old man stood there; although "stood," in this case, was a relative term. He leaned heavily on the cane he held in his right hand, while his left clutched the railing in front of him for balance. His brow was furrowed, making him look even older as he scanned the street in front of him. When he saw Margaret, his eyes lit up and he smiled.

"Margaret!" His left hand briefly left the railing to wave to her, causing him to weave a little dangerously.

"Grandfather!" Her hand shot into the air, as if she could steady him from where she stood in the street. Throwing him one more worried glance, she dashed through the front door and up the stairs as fast as she could. A couple minutes later she joined him on the balcony, taking his left arm and supporting his weight.

"What on earth do you think you are doing?" she chided him gently as she began to steer him back inside to the sitting room. "You know you should not be walking around--"

"No, my dear," he pulled away slightly from her. "There are chairs out here. Let us sit." She was stronger than he was; if she'd wanted to, she could have pulled him into the room and forced him back into his bed. But she spared him that blow to his dignity; age and illness had already taken away his health and his strength, the least she could do was leave him his pride. So instead, she helped settle him in one of the cane chairs on the balcony, while she took the other.

Settled and comfortable, he sighed contentedly. Turning his head to look out to the west, he regarded the horizon for a few moments. "I decided I would see the sunset tonight, my child. I have so few left, and I must see them all."

Margaret clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Now, Grandfather, don't be silly. You know talk like that will not make you well. Now, did you eat the soup I brought you earlier? I could…" He turned back to her, and her voice died. There was an intensity in his gaze that she had never seen before, an urgency and a sadness. And yet, strangely, she saw peace there too. She knew then that he was right; she was going to lose him. Perhaps not tonight, but very, very soon.

She must have looked as stricken as she felt, for his eyes softened almost immediately. He leaned across the small table that separated them, and covered her hand with his. "There is something I must discuss with you, while there is still time." Margaret usually avoided all talk of his impending death, telling herself that a positive attitude was more beneficial. But now, she realized she had been lying to herself all along. She hadn't been trying to keep his spirits up. Rather, she'd been trying to keep up her own. The old man was all she had in this world, and she was so terribly frightened of being left alone again. But for his sake, she bit back all the protests she wanted to give, and answered him instead.

"What is that, Grandfather?"

"'Grandfather,'" he repeated, chuckling softly. "How long have you been calling me that now?" He smiled fondly at the woman sitting across from him. "I wish with all of my heart that you were of my own blood, you know. You've been more kin to me these past few years than any of my own." He sighed deeply, which stirred up a fit of coughing. Margaret waited patiently for the coughing spell to be over, trying to hide her deep concern. But the spell was a short one; he soon cleared his throat and continued. "The doctors say I don't have much time left, and I'm at peace with that. Soon enough, I will be gone, and my ne'er-do-well children will be here, swarming like vultures over my will and my fortune."  
  
"Surely they're not as bad as all that," Margaret murmured, unconsciously trying to comfort him. But his words were true, and they both knew it. In the ten years he had lived in Egypt, none of his children had set foot in this country. They weren't interested in the old man's life, but would certainly come to collect on his death.

He chuckled again. "If I had my way, my dear, I'd leave all I have to you. But-"

"Grandfather, that's not necessary…" she began to protest, but he held up a hand, and she fell quiet again.

"But, " he continued as if she hadn't spoken. "As it so happens, there _is_ no fortune. I've been so selfish as to squander my children's inheritance here in Cairo, and they will find very little when they come to pick over my bones." His words were self-deprecating, but the twinkle in his eye showed that he would enjoy this final joke on his greedy descendants. That twinkle faded soon, however. "Which brings me to what I want to talk to you about." He leaned forward, closer to her as if he were about to impart a great secret. "There is something very important that I must give to you." She found herself leaning in towards him in response.

The knock on the door startled both of them. Margaret leapt to her feet. "That'll be your tea," she said, crossing back into the sitting room to answer the door. The servant at the door set the large tray on the table near the door, and Margaret busied herself pouring out two cups of tea, adding sugar to hers. She turned to bring the two cups out to the balcony, and was startled to find the old man had followed her inside, and was now rifling through the large trunk in the corner of the room.

"Grandfather?" She crossed to him, setting the teacups down on the low table in front of the sofa. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for…aha!" The old man slowly straightened up and turned to Margaret, sitting on the sofa and reaching for one of the cups of tea. In his other hand, he held a small object wrapped in cloth. He gestured for her to join him, and handed the object to her.

"I have had this for a couple of years," he said. "I was intending to return it to its rightful owner when I was stronger, but…well, I pass that duty on to you now, my dear."

She looked at him quizzically for a moment before turning her attention to the strange object. She unrolled the scarf that covered it, and a small box fell into her lap. She picked it up and looked at it curiously. It was in the shape of an octagon, made of metal, and was covered in hieroglyphics. The lid attracted her attention: it was made up of eight hinged pieces, shaped like jagged triangles, which met in the middle. There wasn't a catch on the lid, however, and there wasn't any space between the triangles to get a fingernail underneath. She had no idea how the box opened. 

She looked back up at the old man and raised an eyebrow. "What is this? A puzzle box of some kind? How does it open?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, to be quite honest. I think it is more than it appears to be, though. See the cartouche there?" He pointed to the underside of the box, and Margaret flipped it over to look. "That pertains to Seti I. And you know what that means."

Margaret cocked her head to the side while she thought. Although she gave tours of the Museum of Antiquities for extra pocket money, she was by no stretch of the imagination a scholar of Ancient Egypt. "Seti I…" she repeated softly, trying to remember. "He was, when, about 1200 BC? I'm sorry, I can't remember his significance." She grinned at his expression of mock dismay. "Well, don't look at me like that! You're the Egyptian scholar, not I!"

He leaned back on the sofa, returning her smile. "Hamunaptra," he finally said.

"_Hamunaptra?_" she repeated. "Now, come on. Isn't that supposed to be a mythical place, like Atlantis or something?"

He nodded, turning the nod into a shrug. "Nevertheless, there is something to this." He had regained that look of intensity she had seen out on the balcony. She sipped her tea, box in her lap, as she waited for him to continue. She could tell he was warming up to a story, and she knew better than to interrupt.

"I acquired it a couple of years ago, from a chap who had been on a very strange dig. It seems this woman was looking for something out in the desert, and she and her men hired a number of local boys for labor. Many of them didn't come back." His voice was pitched low, as if he were telling a ghost story around a campfire. She raised her eyebrows for him to continue, not sure where this was going. "Well, I suppose they found whatever it was they were looking for, but our chap found this. He thought it was a nice little trinket, and slipped it in his pocket without telling anyone. But then, ever since he got home, he said it started giving him strange dreams and the like. I was able to persuade him to part with it pretty easily."

"And did you start having the dreams?" Margaret asked, trying not to sound amused. This story seemed more and more fantastic to her the longer it went on. But she had indulged his tales of curses and mummies for years now; this was nothing new, really.

He nodded. "I did. I saw the ancient city, and I saw where the box belongs. I swore then that I would do everything I could to return it, and the dreams stopped. But then, of course, I fell ill soon after, and have not had the strength to make the journey."

Margaret didn't like where this was heading. "Dreams? A journey?" A feeling of foreboding settled in her stomach, and she tried to shake it off with a joke. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather leave this to one of your children? You know, whom you genuinely dislike?"

The man she called Grandfather gripped her arm, his eyes solemn. That intensity mesmerized her. "I am serious, Margaret, I have never been more so. You must return that box to the Medjai, who guard Hamunaptra."

That was the last straw. Margaret burst out laughing. "The Medjai! Of course. And then shall I go to the North Pole and deliver a package to Santa Claus? Grandfather," she stared right back into his eyes, trying to be as serious as he was. "The Medjai don't exist; they haven't existed since the time of the pharaohs." The talk about Seti I had jogged a little of her memory; she knew who the Medjai were. They had been the bodyguards of the pharaohs, and some ancient artifacts in the museum made mention of them. But they were all gone now, rendered obsolete as time marched on, leaving the age of the pharaohs behind. How could she return the box to a tribe that didn't exist, in a town that was a myth?

"_This is no joke, Margaret!_" The severity in his voice caught her attention. He had never sounded this earnest about anything before, and she was starting to get a little frightened. "You must keep this box safe, and you must return it to Hamunaptra. There is no one else I can trust…" He broke off as he started to cough again. Margaret gently eased out of his grasp. All of this agitation couldn't be good for him; she had to calm him down.

"All right, Grandfather," she finally relented. "I'll hold onto the box. I'll find a way to get it home, I promise." She stroked his arms, trying to settle him down. "I promise," she repeated, over and over like a mantra, although she had no idea how she would follow through with that vow.

A few moments later, he was calmer, and she poured him another cup of tea, warming her own as she did so. On her way back to the sofa, she took up her knitting bag from its usual place under the table by the door. Crisis past, they settled into more pleasant, everyday conversation, which relieved Margaret tremendously. This was how she was used to spending her evenings with Grandfather: telling him of her students, hearing the occasional story of his archeological digs in years past. None of this strange talk about dreams, mythical cities, and long-dead tribesmen. She told him of her encounter at the museum with her childhood friend, and he seemed delighted that she had met a piece of her past.

The evening stretched on. Margaret pulled out her knitting as Grandfather began to doze by the fire. She knit a few rows, but the complex lacework pattern made her a little sleepy. She looked across the room, to where Grandfather was now fast asleep. Smiling, she put her half-finished shawl away and crossed the room to close the doors to the balcony. She kissed the old man on the top of his head.

"Goodnight, Grandfather," she whispered. He stirred a little, not opening his eyes.

"The box," he murmured. "Take it with you. Keep it safe." She nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see her. Picking up the small box, she looped the scarf back around it and shoved it in her knitting bag, under the lace shawl. The box was too large to fit in her reticule, and she had carried no other bag. Something in her didn't want to carry the box openly. She would just take her knitting home with her tonight.


	3. Ardeth sees a Mouse

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Ardeth Bay was pleased. He wasn't pleased about being in Cairo, of course; cities meant crowds, motorcars and even airplanes, all things Ardeth could certainly live without. But, for now, being in Cairo was a necessary evil. The Medjai chieftain strode through the night towards the hotel one of his men had pointed out earlier. The lead he had been given was not a very good one: a man vaguely remembered talking to a friend who heard the tale from his brother. But it was the first time in nearly two years that anyone had mentioned seeing the Key, and so it was worth looking into.

Upon entering the hotel, Ardeth headed straight for the front desk. The man behind the counter there bowed his head ever so slightly, in a subtle gesture of respect. Ardeth knew the man: he was a Medjai like himself. There were a few such Medjai in Cairo: bank managers, hotel clerks, who lacked the facial tattoos that identified the Brotherhood to one another. But they were no less warriors for God; instead of fighting with guns and scimitars, they waged their battles with paper, with money, and with information.

After a brief murmured conversation with the hotel clerk, Ardeth had learned everything he needed to know. The man he sought did indeed live in this hotel. He was an elderly gentleman in failing health, but in his day he had been quite a collector of Egyptian artifacts. Most of these artifacts had been sold in recent years to pay various debts, especially when his health began to fail. His only visitor as of late was a young mouse of a woman, an American, who sat with the old man and kept him company on certain evenings. His informant even had the names of both the old man and his caretaker, but Ardeth shook his head sharply, stopping the man from supplying them. There was no way to know what the days ahead would bring. If they truly had the Key, and guessed its importance, anything could happen. If they knew too much, Ardeth would have to kill them. He wasn't happy about that fact, but it was part of the oath he had taken to protect the City of the Dead. And he never liked to know the names of people he might have to kill. 

Satisfied with the information he had received, Ardeth nodded. An old man and a shrinking violet? After what he'd faced in his life, finding out what those two knew should be no problem. He could certainly do this one on his own.

He'd been told that the old man never left his room, but Ardeth stepped into the dining room anyway to take a look around. In the past ten years, he had fought a three thousand year old foe, been attacked by a sandstorm while strapped to the wing of an airplane, and been nearly killed by the top half of a mummy while riding a double-decker bus. Ardeth Bay was not a man who easily surprised anymore. Which was why no flicker of emotion showed on his face as he crossed the room and dropped himself into an empty chair across from a very startled American.

"O'Connell."

"Ardeth!" Rick, however, showed plenty of emotion. Nearly upsetting his glass with surprise, he quickly leaned forward to clasp the Medjai's hand in both of his. He laughed. "It must be my day for reunions."

"Indeed?" Ardeth raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah." Rick sat back in his chair and signaled for the waiter. "Oh, don't glower like that, it wasn't anything supernatural. I just ran into someone that I knew when I was a kid. Didn't even recognize her, it's been so long." He waved his hand, dismissing the topic. "So how are you? What are you doing in Cairo? Don't tell me there's more evil on the loose."

Ardeth allowed himself a half smile at that. "So far, no. The past two years have been refreshingly quiet. You?"

Rick smiled. "I'm just a messenger this time. Evelyn sent me. I'm overseeing the transfer of some artifacts to the British Museum."

"Evelyn allowed you to keep her away from Egypt?" Ardeth was surprised. He knew very few Westerners who took to the desert the way that Evelyn O'Connell did. Even though her home was now in England, it was plain that a great deal of her soul came from this place. Egypt was in her blood, as the woman was fond of saying.

Rick snorted. "She didn't have much of a choice. The baby's due in a month, there was no way she was getting on a boat."

"Ah, another child." Ardeth sipped at the mint tea the waiter had brought. "Just be sure that you keep this one away from shiny objects."

Rick grinned. "Like, oh, say, bracelets? Made out of gold?"

Ardeth tried, but found it impossible to maintain his stoicism in front of his friend. His face relaxed in a smile. "Just a suggestion."

The two friends enjoyed a leisurely meal together, in relative quiet until the dinner was nearly over. Rick tried to bring the conversation back to Ardeth again, as he realized that the Medjai had never answered his question: what _was_ he doing in Cairo?

"You must be feeling pretty good, huh?"

Ardeth glanced at his friend, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Hamunaptra's still buried under the sand. Can't be much left to guard. So you have to be, what, pretty much retired now?"

Ardeth smiled thinly and shook his head. "I'm afraid not. We are pledged to guard the City of the Dead, and that is what we must do."

"But Imhotep--" Rick automatically lowered his voice when invoking the High Priest's name, leaning a little across the table in his friend's direction. "He's gone," he continued. "His body was sucked up by the pyramid at Ahm Shere, and the pyramid itself disappeared."

Ardeth nodded. "That is true. But it is not only the creature we must fear. There are certain…items as well, that we must ensure do not fall into the wrong hands."

Rick nodded slowly, finally understanding. "Like a couple of books, for instance."

"For instance."

"The black book was also at Ahm Shere," Rick said thoughtfully. "Alex used it when Evy…" He couldn't finish that sentence. He remembered all too well when he thought he had lost his wife for good. He remembered the despair, the utter terror he felt at the prospect of living his life without her. And Alex, his brilliant little boy…while Rick had rushed off to take his revenge, his son had remained levelheaded enough to resurrect his own mother. He returned his attention to Ardeth. "The black book is gone," he said thickly.

Ardeth regarded Rick with a curious expression. There was much the Medjai warrior did not know about the O'Connells' experience at the pyramid. He had rejoined his men by that time, and had only been assured of their survival when he saw them depart in Izzy's strange flying contraption. Something had happened to Evelyn? And Alex had…done something…with the black book? In an instant, he knew. And for a moment, he tried to imagine what Rick must have felt, seeing Evelyn's life slip away. He shook his head imperceptibly as he found that he couldn't imagine it. No one meant that much to him. There had been women in his life, certainly, but he had met no one that fit into his soul the way that Rick and Evelyn obviously did for each other. No, he couldn't even begin to understand what Rick had gone through.

"Yes," he finally said in reply. "The black book is gone, then. That is good. I have men back at the ruins of the City, looking for the Book of Amun-Ra. I feel that it may be pointless, however. That woman, Meela. I know she found it, but she did not take it with her. And since it was used once to destroy the creature, I think it very likely that she destroyed it in turn. Then there is also the Key."

"The Key?" Rick's brow furrowed. It was that damned key that had started this whole mess. If he hadn't found it at Hamunaptra, and if Jonathan hadn't swiped it from him, he wouldn't have gotten in that bar brawl that had landed him in prison. And he wouldn't have met Evelyn, and … "Wait. What does it matter? If the books are both gone, what does it matter where the Key is?"

Ardeth shrugged. "Perhaps you are right. But until I know for certain that the Books are indeed gone forever, the Key still holds some danger. It is a…what is it you say? A 'loose end' I must 'tie up.' The Medjai lost track of the Key once--" he added, with a pointed glance at Rick, who replied with the most innocent look he could muster. "--it will not happen again."

Rick knew better than to try and argue with his friend. "Stubborn" didn't even begin to describe Ardeth. "So where is the Key? Did Meela have that too?"

Ardeth shook his head, thinking carefully. "She did not have it." He had already been over this so many times in his own head, but talking it out with Rick helped. "I was there, at the City, while she and her diggers were excavating. I saw no one find the Key. Yet, I believe it is here."

"In Cairo?"

Ardeth nodded. "If it truly is here, I will find it. If these items are still on this earth, they must be kept safe from those that do not know their true purpose."

Rick raised his eyebrows, grinning at his friend. "Are you possibly referring to a certain librarian we both know?"

Ardeth shook his head with a quiet laugh. By Allah, it felt good to laugh again! He did so rarely, and almost always in the presence of this American. "Your wife, I think, learned the error of her ways quite thoroughly."

"She did at that," Rick agreed. "She is very happily settled down at the British Museum." He grew quiet for a moment, studying the gold band on his finger. "We almost lost our son," he said quietly. _And I did lose Evy… _"That shook her up, shook us both up, more than we'd realized. That made us put a lot of things in perspective." He was silent for another moment. Then he shook off the heavy thoughts and looked up with a more cheerful expression. "I think our adventuring days are finally over. Now, all we're looking forward to is a nice, long, boring life."

"My friend," Ardeth said with a smile. "Your life will never be boring."

"Look who's talking." Both men chuckled quietly.

"And now," Ardeth said, rising from his chair, "I must leave you. I wish you a pleasant stay in Cairo."

"Thanks." Rick stood too. "If there's anything I can do to help you in your search, you'll let me know, right?"

"I thought you had stopped adventuring?" He asked as the two men walked out of the dining room.

Rick shrugged. "Well, I'll make an exception for a friend." 

In the lobby, the friends bid each other good night, and Rick headed up the stairs to his room. Ardeth walked outside, his dark hair and clothing allowing him to blend into the night. Outside the hotel he paused, his eyes scanning the third floor of the hotel, where his quarry lived. As he watched, a woman appeared by the balcony doors. He couldn't see her very clearly; she was three floors above him, and lit from behind by the lamp inside the room. She certainly was a Westerner- he could tell by the cut of her clothing, the light shade of her skin, and her light brown hair that was twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She stood in the open doorway for a few moments, gazing up at the sky before she moved back and closed the balcony doors.

"That must be the Mouse," he said to himself. He nodded in satisfaction. This would be very easy.


	4. Dreams, Books, and Lame Exposition

Margaret looked around in wonder

Chapter Four

Margaret looked around in wonder. She was standing in a vast courtyard, bigger than the one in the mission, larger even than the one in the Fort. She turned in a small, slow circle, trying to take in everything around her. She'd never been here before; she knew that for certain. After taking in the walls of the courtyard, the statues that lined it, and the people milling around, it hit her. She was in ancient Egypt. It all made perfect sense to Margaret once she realized she was dreaming.

The murmur of the crowd around her grew more focused, facing one entrance to the courtyard. Margaret turned to look. A man was walking through the entrance. But this was no ordinary man. By his dress alone, she could tell that he was someone of great importance. His robes were made of an expensive fabric, covered with rich embroidery. But this was not the reason that Margaret stared. Quite simply, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Far from concealing, his robes served to emphasize his incredible physique. His skin glowed bronze in the midday sun, his head as smooth and hairless as the rest of him. His eyes were electric; she could feel the intensity of his gaze from across the courtyard.

He was looking right at her!

The crowd parted, forming an unobstructed path between Margaret and the god-like man. Keeping his eyes on her, the man crossed the courtyard towards her. Mesmerized, she didn't move, didn't even blink. When he was standing directly in front of her, his imposing features softened into a smile so intimate that Margaret blushed down to her toes. He reached out and trailed a gentle finger down her cheek and across her jawline, lingering at her chin. He spoke to her in a language she had never heard before, yet she understood every word.

"You will help me."

"I will help you," she replied in the same language, hypnotized by both his eyes and his touch. He smiled, another secret smile just for her.

__

This is the best dream I've ever had, Margaret thought, as the bronze god cupped her face in his hands and stepped closer to her. Was he going to kiss her? Her heart pounded so hard it was almost painful. She stared up at him, and the sun around them grew brighter and brighter. Her eyes began to tear up from the glare, and she closed them for just a moment.

When she opened her eyes again, she was no longer looking at a beautiful bronze god. She was looking at the ceiling of her small bedroom in the mission. For a few moments she just stared up at the cracks in the plaster, her mind on the dream. She could still feel his touch burning on her cheek. She'd never felt such a magnetic pull to another person before. And she'd certainly never had a man look at her that way, like he couldn't pull his gaze away even if he wished to. He was amazing. He was beautiful. He was…

"Imhotep," she sighed. Instantly, her brows came together, startled. Where had that come from? She didn't know, but at the same time, she was certain that that was the name of the bronze god from her dream. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn't seem to place it. Had she met him before? Surely she would remember…

"Enough!" she finally said out loud to the tiny room. If she didn't stop this now, she was likely to spend all day in bed, daydreaming about a man who only existed in her mind. She got out of bed, walking to the other side of the room to throw open the shutters. The sun was fairly high- she'd slept later than usual. And it was already getting hot. She could feel her cotton nightdress sticking to her back. She turned back into the room and poured water from the ceramic pitcher on the table into the matching basin. After washing her face, she settled herself at her little vanity. She unbraided her hair and brushed it out, then twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. It wasn't the most flattering way to wear her hair, but it was the most practical. It was out of her way and she didn't have to worry about it.

As Margaret stuck the last few pins in her hair, she regarded herself critically in the mirror. Her reflection stared back impassively, with pale gray eyes that always looked wide, like a child's. Her hair used to be brown, but years of living under the hot Egyptian sun had bleached it to a color that wasn't quite brown, but wasn't quite blonde either. Her skin had a perpetual light tan, but she was careful to stay out of the sun at the hottest time of the day. As a result, her skin showed little of the sun damage that was so visible on Westerners. Her face was smooth and relatively unlined which, combined with her eyes, made her look younger than she was. She was nearing thirty, for heaven's sake, and people like Dr. Stuart still called her "child." Was it any surprise that Rick O'Connell still thought of her as "little Meg"? She threw the last hairpin down, disgusted with herself.

She dressed slowly, in another long skirt. As she did so, her dark thoughts continued. No wonder she was a spinster at twenty-eight. Her clothes were at least ten years out of fashion, and she lived in the mission with the nuns. Everyone she met probably thought she was a postulant, maybe even a nun herself. Would anyone ever see her as an adult? As a woman? Would the day ever come that a man would really caress her cheek, cup her face in his hands, and…

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" What was going on today? Margaret felt as if she couldn't control her thoughts. She'd never been one to revel in self-pity. So where were all of these terrible thoughts coming from? Her life wasn't as bad as all that. It was the life she had chosen, after all. She remembered the day she turned eighteen, and had been released from the orphanage. She'd walked out of the mission and into the streets of Cairo. She was free; the world was laid out before her, and she could do anything she wanted.

She had never been so terrified in her life. The last time she'd been out in the world, she'd been five years old, travelling around the world with her parents. Her mother had gotten a fever, followed by her father, and then finally herself. Days later, her fever had broken and she had recovered. Her parents had not; she had been left alone in a strange country.

That was the danger of going out into the world. It was so easy to lose everything.

At the end of that one day of freedom, she was back at the mission, begging to be let back in. In the following ten years, she'd gained the courage to venture out into Cairo, but never beyond. The mission remained her home. Her sanctuary. She knew she was safe here.

So why did everything seem so unsatisfactory all of a sudden? 

The dream. It all came back to that dream, didn't it? That was the only reason that her thoughts were taking this turn. She'd never been a romantic person before. Romance meant adventure, and adventure was definitely not for her.

Ancient Egypt. Imhotep. Despite all of her self-admonitions, those two thoughts kept rolling through her mind. It could be worth a trip to the museum. She was meeting Rick there this afternoon anyway, and it boasted an extensive research library. Dr. Stuart had told her just last week that she was welcome to use the library anytime she wanted to. Maybe if she found out who this Imhotep was, if he had even existed, she'd figure out what had triggered this dream, and why it wouldn't let her go.

She glanced in the mirror once more before heading out the door and down the stairs to the dining hall to join the nuns for breakfast. The thought of spending the day in the company of stacks of books, followed by dinner with her long lost "brother" cheered Margaret up immediately. Books were safe, books were stable. Margaret loved books.

***

Rick O'Connell hated books. He'd never been much of a reader, but today confirmed it. He was not having fun. He'd arrived at the Museum fairly early, getting there just after Stuart. After their meeting the day before, he'd been assured that the artifacts he had come for were clearly organized and labeled. Remembering Evelyn's tenure at the Museum early in their relationship, Rick looked forward to making a couple of lists, checking off a few boxes, and getting home to his wife.

Instead, he had looked in despair at the closet Stuart had indicated. Obviously, "clearly organized and labeled" meant something different to Evelyn than to the rest of the Museum's staff. The crates themselves were stacked neatly, he had to give them that. Most of them had lids. Some of the artifacts had even been packed securely enough to make it to England safely. The rest of the items were tossed into their crates. Each crate, as far as he could see, had a list attached that identified its contents. The first list he saw was in English, which cheered him. The second one was in French, which made him a little nervous. He knew some French from his days in the Legion; he could probably figure it out okay. The third list, as well as the fifth, seventh, and eighth, were in an Arabic scrawl that made him want to cry. The sixth one was in Spanish, although it might have been Italian. He'd given up after that.

Visions of getting home to Evelyn in a week dissipated. Visions of getting home to her before their child was born were following closely behind. Before he could get out of there, he had to make sure every item in every crate was properly packed. Before he could do that, he had to match the items to the lists on the crates. And before he could do _that_, he had to figure out what was on the damn lists! 

All of this had led him to the library, and to reflect on how much he hated books. He sat at a long table, dictionaries spread out around him. He'd done pretty well on the French ones, he thought, but there were still a number of phrases that he didn't understand. A look at a Spanish dictionary showed him that the mystery language was actually Italian. With his French coming back to him, this shouldn't be too hard. He could figure out those lists in…oh, a couple of weeks.

Rick tossed the Italian dictionary back to the table where it landed with a dull thud. He'd been sitting in that one chair for almost two hours; he had to get up and walk around before he went nuts. He strolled through the stacks, looking dispassionately at the numerous volumes on the shelves. Evelyn was the scholar in the family, not him. She'd have these lists translated and the artifacts sorted in record time, and would not be spending her time fumbling around in the library. He, on the other hand, would feel much better if there was something he could shoot or beat to a pulp. He shook his head and forced his thoughts back to the matter at hand. Tonight he was having dinner with Margaret. First thing tomorrow, he'd ask Stuart about finding someone to translate the Arabic, and maybe the Italian…

A low voice behind him brought him out of his thoughts. "Am I seeing things? Rick O'Connell in a library? You've certainly changed."

He turned to see Margaret herself, emerging from one of the stacks. He grinned at her. "You'd be surprised. I can read now and everything. You, on the other hand," he gestured to her, standing there immaculately dressed, with her arms wrapped around a couple of thick volumes, "haven't changed at all."

"Yes, I have," she replied with a smile, crossing to a table and putting the books down. "I've gotten a lot taller."

He chuckled. "True." He joined her in front of the table and looked at the books she'd put down. "_Pharaohs of the Nineteenth Dynasty_. _Personages and Peoples of Ancient Times_," he read. He looked up at her, raising an eyebrow. "Let me guess. A little light reading on a Saturday afternoon?"

Margaret smiled, but the smile seemed a little tight, like she was forcing it. "You could say that. I don't know nearly as much as I should about ancient Egypt, for all the time that I've spent living here and giving tours. I just thought I'd do a little catching up, since I was meeting you here anyway." She dropped her eyes down to the top book on the table, her fingers running over the title stamped on the leather cover. Her mouth had compressed into a tight little line, and she looked for all of the world like a disapproving schoolmarm. Rick recognized that look; it was left over from their childhood. Something was bothering her, but she didn't want to talk about it. He didn't ask her about it. She had always opened up about what was on her mind when she was ready to; pestering her didn't hurry matters along any. So he decided to do now what he had done then, when she hadn't wanted to talk about her problems. He decided to tease her.

"Did I hear you right?" he asked. "There's something you don't know everything about? When you were little, you read every book you could get your hands on."

"Oh, I still do," she replied, the tension still in her face. "I just never was all that interested in the Ancient World. The more I read about it, the more dangerous it seems."

"Dangerous?" Rick looked at her a little warily.

Margaret nodded vigorously. "All those ancient tombs, with all those corresponding curses. I know a lot of people don't believe in curses, but I still think it's a big risk, don't you agree?"

"I do," Rick replied quietly. "I really do."

"Anyway," she said, obviously looking for a way to change the topic. "What are _you_ doing in here?"

He gestured back to his table, with those damned dictionaries and those double-damned lists. "Trying to translate. It's for those artifacts I'm taking back."

Margaret wrinkled her nose. "I'm afraid I can't help you there. Like I said, I hardly know anything about ancient Egypt, and I couldn't decipher a cartouche if my life depended on it. Although I do know someone--"

"Oh, no," Rick interrupted. "It's not ancient Egyptian. It's just, well, other languages I don't speak. Wait a second…" he looked at her again, as if just noticing her. "I'm so stupid."

Margaret cocked her head to one side. "I wouldn't say that. You were always more a doer than a thinker, but I don't know if I'd call you 'stupid.' "

"Funny." Rick pretended to be annoyed, but secretly he was glad to see that the worry had gone from her face. Whatever had been bothering her couldn't have been that important. "I just can't believe it took me this long to think of it. You speak Arabic. Do you think you could help me with these?"

Margaret shrugged amiably, leaving her books where she had placed them and following him to his table. She took the sheets of paper he handed her, glancing over them. "Sure. This is pretty straightforward. If I took it home tonight, I could give them back to you in the morning." She looked down on the table, at the French pages.

"Did you do these?" she asked with a small smile. Not waiting for an answer or permission, she took up his ink pen and crossed out a phrase, replacing it with the right one. Then she did it again. And again. And…

"Okay, fine!" Rick said with a laugh. "So my French is a little rusty."

"A little?" Margaret looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. Her expression was disapproving and amused all at once. For a split second, her face was eleven years old again. How many times had she looked at him like that when they were young? Rick realized he had been right. She may be taller, she may be older, but Margaret Crane really hadn't changed at all. All those years ago, he had thought of her as the baby sister he never had. To his surprise, he found himself feeling that way again. He hadn't realized till just that moment how much he had missed her.

She looked back down at the papers on the table, breaking the spell. She picked up the small stack of lists in French. "I'll take these home too. You got a lot of this right; I'll just fix them up a little. What's this?" She picked up another sheet. "Italian?"

"Let me guess. You speak that too."

Margaret shook her head. "I know a little, but not enough to be fluent. If I had a dictionary, though, I could probably…ah!" She hefted the thick book Rick had tossed down in disgust. "This should work."

"Amazing." Rick shook his head. "You just saved my neck. I don't suppose you'd like to help me catalogue and pack a few boxes of artifacts, do you?" 

That question earned him another amused-yet-disapproving look.

***

"So," Rick said, leaning back in his chair. "I want you to tell me everything that's happened to you since I saw you last."

Margaret buttered a slice of bread. "I'm afraid that would be a very short story. I got taller, as I said. I got older. I still live at the mission, I just teach now instead of go to school." She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. After a moment, she nodded. "That's about it. The End."

"You teach the orphans?"

She nodded. "And some of the local children as well. Most of the native people want their children to know English, so I teach them too."

"Wow." Rick thought for a moment. "I bet you're a better teacher than Sister Mary Grace was. She was the meanest person I've ever met. And believe me, that's saying something," he added, thinking back on overgrown scorpions, immortal High Priests, and pygmy skeletons with blowdarts. No, Sister Mary Grace with her ruler was definitely the more formidable foe.

"You just didn't like her because she never let you get away with anything," 

"That may be it," he conceded as their dinner arrived.

"Now, how about you?" asked Margaret, picking up her knife and fork. "I'm sure your story is much more interesting than mine. 'Adventure' was always your middle name. Or was it 'disaster'? "

"Depends on who you ask," he replied with a smirk. He thought for a moment as the smirk faded from his face. There was a lot to tell about the last seventeen years of his life. Drinking and wenching in Paris. Joining the Legion. Going to prison. Fighting Imhotep. Getting married. Becoming a father. Fighting Imhotep again. The question was how much should he tell? "I don't really know where to start."

She gestured to his left hand with her fork. "Tell me how you met your wife."

__

Great. Yeah. Start with the easy one. "Well, the short version is that we met when she got me out of jail."

"And you were so grateful that you married her?"

"Something like that." 

Margaret shook her head, amused. "So what's the long version?"

"Oh, believe me, we'd need a much longer meal for that."

"She must be an absolute saint to put up with you. Or have you changed? Settled down and become a respectable member of society?"

"It appears that way. Getting married and having children seems to have had that effect on me."

"You have children?" Margaret's eyebrows shot up again. She tried, but failed to repress a giggle. "Heaven help us all."

Rick's eyes narrowed in mock exasperation, but he was glad to see her laughing. When she laughed, she looked less like a schoolmarm and more like the pretty little girl he'd left behind. He remembered when he first saw her at the museum the day before. She'd walked into the curator's office a timid little woman. Was that how the rest of the world saw her? Timid, small…mousy? That must be the case, or else she would be married by now. Rick felt a small stab of pity for her. Life was passing her by while she kept her head inside books and schoolrooms. 

Well, he'd be here for at least two more weeks. He'd cabled Evelyn that afternoon to let her know about the delay. He'd have to see what he could do to draw Margaret out of her shell in that time. Get her to live a little.

***

Margaret yawned and set down her pen. When her letters bled together, and she was starting to forget which was French and which was Arabic, it was definitely time to stop for the night. She blew gently on the top page to help the ink dry faster. The French lists were done; Rick really had gotten most of it right. She smiled as she thought about the teasing that she'd given him at the museum. It felt so good to see him again. Was this what having family felt like? This warm, satisfied feeling in her breast, knowing that there was someone out there she shared a history with?

She closed the shutters and took off her dressing gown. As she moved to blow out the lamp, her eyes fell upon one of the books she'd brought home. She moved the thick Italian dictionary aside and picked up the other book.

__

Personages and Peoples of Ancient Times.

She was surprisingly calm as she opened the book to the marker she'd placed in it earlier that day. It was the only book in which she's found any mention of the name from her dream. The entry was short, but it had crystallized everything for her. In fact, all she'd needed to see were the words "Pharaoh Seti I."

Grandfather's puzzle box. He'd mentioned having dreams, of course. But in the next breath he'd started raving about non-existent Medjai, so she hadn't taken the old man very seriously.

She did now.

Putting the book aside, she pulled her knitting bag out from under her bed. Plunging her hand inside, she fished through the skeins of Egyptian cotton and drew out the puzzle box, still wrapped in the silk scarf. She leaned back against her pillows and unwrapped the box, examining it from all sides. She thought about the talk that she'd had with Grandfather and triedto correlate it with her dream. Imhotep had asked her to help him. Grandfather had told her to give to box to the Medjai. Was Imhotep actually a Medjai? Was returning the box to him what he meant by helping him?

How was she supposed to give this box to someone who's been dead for three thousand years?

It was all making less and less sense the more she thought about it. She stuck the box and the scarf back in the bag, sliding the bag under her bed. She blew out the lamp and settled down in bed. Enough thinking for one night.

***

__

Imhotep's spirit couldn't smile. His body had been taken away at Ahm Shere, when the gods decided he should fight the Scorpion King as a mortal. That mortal body was now gone, so he had no mouth to smile with. But he was still very, very pleased. The fool that had found the Key had been too frightened. The old man who had next taken possession of it had been smart; he had known too much to do his bidding. But this girl…she was weak. He could control her easily. She would bring the Key to him, and unite it with the Book of Amun-Ra. And he would have his final revenge on the O'Connells, and the Medjai chief that had helped them. He had lost his body, and the woman he loved had betrayed him. But he still had his immortality, and he had his powers. And soon he would have his revenge.


	5. The Last Sunset

She risked a look at her pocket watch

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who's reviewed and offered feedback on my story. You keep me going! Thanks especially to Rebecca for beta-reading this chapter and being my inspiration in angst. :-)

Chapter Five

Over the next few days, Margaret's life settled into a very comfortable pattern. She taught school in the morning. The children always made her smile, as they chattered in this language and that. Every day they spoke more and more English, which meant that every day they spoke more and more to each other. Native Egyptian children talked to French orphans, and English children joined in their games. Margaret loved to see the walls between the cultures come down, as children from so many lands met on common ground.

In the afternoon, she hurried over to the Museum of Antiquities. After she had finished translating the artifact inventory for Rick, she had set to work, helping him properly sort, catalogue, and pack the artifacts for the trip back to England. Working with Rick felt comfortable, normal. Despite the passage of time, the two slid easily back into a sibling-like relationship, although it was tempered with a maturity that they had not had as children. Rick teased her as much as ever; she saw quickly that his playful nature had survived his childhood more or less intact. But growing up had also given him a serious side, that Margaret found she liked very much. She saw that side of Rick when he talked about his wife and his son, and the child that was on the way. The concept of family was alien to her; it had been so long since she had had a family of her own that she had forgotten what it was like. But she listened to Rick's stories with a wistful joy. Far from being envious, she was glad that her old friend had found so much happiness in his life.

Most evenings she spent with Grandfather. She shared his tea, and they watched the sunset together on his balcony. Margaret sat with him, knitting into the night while Grandfather dozed. His stories came fewer now. He spoke less and tired more quickly. Margaret pretended not to notice, but was always there with a hand under his elbow to help him back into his room and to get him into bed. Every so often she thought of what the future would bring, of the day she would lose him, but she stopped those thoughts as quickly as she could. There would be enough time to think on that when it happened. There was no point in ruining the time that they had left.

But the nights were her favorite. At night, Margaret dreamed.

In the daytime, with the sunlight streaming through her window, Margaret knew that she was foolish to feel the way that she did. Imhotep wasn't real. Well, he had been once: but he was long dead, and now only existed in her dreams. But in those dreams, he seemed more real than she did. She often awoke wondering if she was the one who was long dead, and he was the real person doing the dreaming. But those were thoughts for the waking world. In the dreams, none of that mattered.

Margaret had never been a romantic person. She had read about love of course, in books. But she had never understood what it truly meant. She didn't know what it was to give everything you had, everything you were, to another person, and to receive their love in return. It had always seemed a little silly to her. She had grown up learning to trust only in herself. Everyone else eventually left her; she was the only one she could really count on.

But these nights had changed her. She felt Imhotep's touch on her skin, heard him whisper words in her ear. She awoke with her bedclothes in a tangle around her sweat-slick body, her breathing irregular. At the same time she was snapping awake, her heart was aching, longing to return to the man and the dream. Every morning when she awoke, she found that she couldn't wait until the night came again. Every night when she went to bed, she hoped he would visit her again.

He always did.

One night, a little over a week after he had begun to appear to her, he met her in her dreams like he always did. Margaret was surprised to see him holding the puzzle box, the same one that Grandfather had given her. He held it in a certain way, and it suddenly opened. The eight triangles that made up the box's lid sprang outward, looking like an eight-pointed star with a small hollow in the middle. Margaret was amazed. She had been trying to open that box for days, and had given up on ever figuring out its secret. He handed her the box. Then, from nowhere, he held up a large book. From what she could see, it was made of gold. It had to have been very heavy, but he hefted it as if it weighed nothing. The front of the book was covered in hieroglyphics, but near the bottom of the cover there was a large, star-shaped hole. She looked from the hole to the box in her hand. It looked like the box, unfolded as it was now, would fit into that hole, like a key fit into a lock.

Imhotep stepped towards her, smiling in that way she loved so well. He caressed the side of her face with the backs of his fingers. She leaned into his touch.

"Hamunaptra," he said softly. "Come to me." Sunlight glared off the golden book, flashing into her eyes…and she was awake.

"Hamunaptra," she repeated, breathing deeply as her heartbeat returned to normal. She sat up in bed, taking the box out of its hiding place in her knitting bag. Unwrapping it, she regarded it for a few moments. How had he done it? She ran her fingertips lightly around the circumference of the box, and felt something move. She looked closer, and suddenly placed her fingers in certain places on the box. She pushed down at the same time, and the box sprang open, just as it had in the dream. She almost dropped it in surprise.

"Amazing," she whispered.

***

Rick couldn't believe it. Just a week ago, he had looked at the closet full of artifacts and had thought he would never finish organizing them all. And now he was nailing down the lid on the last crate. He would be home sooner than he had expected, after all. He had briefly considered cabling Evelyn again to let her know, but in the end he decided it would be more fun to surprise her.

He pounded down the last nail, and threw down the hammer with a triumphant flourish.

"Done!" He called out. Across the hallway, Margaret was affixing shipping labels to the other crates. She raised her head at his shout and clapped her hands.

"Finally!" she sighed. "I thought these crates would never end." He nodded, taking a step back to survey his work.

"Tomorrow these go on the boat, and I go on right behind them," he said, not even trying to mask the relief in his voice. 

"You must be so excited to see your family." Rick looked up at the wistful tone in Margaret's voice. She was smiling, obviously happy for him, but it was that forced smile again. Her eyes looked a little afraid. This time, however, he knew exactly what was bothering her. 

"Hey," he said softly. She looked up at him, and her smile wavered a little.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I know I'm just being silly. It's just that, it was so nice to have you around, and…" She looked down at the crate in front of her, tracing its edge with one finger. "I'll miss you," she finally said.

"That's not silly," he replied. "Listen, let me get home, and real soon, I'll bring you over to London for a visit, okay? Evelyn's going to love you, I know. And so is Alex. But you have to promise me not to tell Alex too many stories about when I was younger, or I'm going to lose all credibility as a dad." That last remark brought a small laugh out of her. 

"I don't know," she replied. "Go to London?" She looked as unsure as if he had asked her to walk there herself.

"Yes," he replied firmly. "You'll come to London. But for now, you'll come to dinner." He grasped her arm. "Come on. I'm starving."

"Dinner?" Laughing, she pulled herself out of his grasp. "Rick, it's only four in the afternoon."

"Too early?" He shrugged. "Fine. Have it your way. I'll go back to my room and pack. Meet you in the dining room of the hotel at seven?" She nodded, the sadness gone from her eyes.

Rick O'Connell walked out of the museum, feeling a little more sober than he had expected to. He hadn't realized it until just then, but he was going to miss her too. Who was going to tease her until she smiled after he was gone?

***

It was time to make his move. Ardeth didn't believe in taking life unless it was necessary. So instead, he had taken his time, observing the old man's movements and habits, waiting for the opportunity to act. Tonight was the night. The old man took tea in his room every night, with or without the woman Ardeth had begun to call The Mouse. The tea that was sent up that night contained enough laudanum to render five men unconscious. It should certainly be enough for the two of them. All he had to do was wait a couple of hours, and he could search the rooms for the Key while they slept.

***

"Is that better?" Margaret asked, placing a pillow behind Grandfather's back. He nodded.

  
"A little. But the pain is bad tonight, my dear. Perhaps a little of the medicine the doctor left?"

"The laudanum?" Margaret picked up the bottle. He had been taking it more and more lately, which worried her a little. She knew this stuff was addictive. But the only other option was to leave him in pain. Which was really no option at all. She poured a dose out into a small glass and brought it out to him on the balcony. He tossed it back in one go, like a soldier tossed back a shot of whiskey.

She took the glass back and brought the tea tray out onto the balcony, setting everything up within easy reach of the old man. She poured out a cup for him, but not one for herself. She had to meet Rick downstairs.

She risked a look at her pocket watch. Late again.

"I must go, Grandfather," she said. "Rick is waiting for me. I'll be up after dinner to settle you in for the night. Are you sure you'll be all right?"

The old man nodded, taking a healthy sip of his tea. "Yes, my dear. I am quite happy out here. The sunset is beautiful tonight."

Margaret turned at the door. Through the open balcony doors, she could see Grandfather happily settled in the cane chair, watching his beloved sunset. She smiled at the peaceful scene and slipped out the door, pulling it firmly shut behind her.

She was late. As usual. But she only had to hurry down the stairs and into the dining room. She was thinking about her destination, and her apology to Rick, so intently that she didn't notice the man in her path until she collided with him, bouncing a little painfully off his chest.

"Oh!" She teetered for a second, nearly losing her balance. The man recovered himself much more quickly, and put out a hand to steady her.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was a low baritone, his accent revealing him to be a native.

"No," she replied quickly, removing her arm from his grasp. "Not at all…" As she looked up into the face of the man she'd nearly run down, her voice faded. She was struck instantly by the tattoos that accented his face. The ones on his cheeks seemed Arabic in origin, but Margaret couldn't place them. Across his forehead was a string of what looked like hieroglyphics, which of course she didn't recognize at all. Dropping her eyes again, she noticed that he was dressed all in black, his robes looked almost like the dress of the Bedouin tribe. All in black- no wonder she hadn't seen him!

"I'm fine," she said finally, flashing him an apologetic smile as she stepped around him. "Excuse me."

***

Ardeth bowed slightly as the clumsy young woman stepped around him and hurried on towards the dining room. If he didn't know better, he'd say that she was the mousy girl from the old man's balcony: the caretaker. But that was impossible. She, along with the man himself, should be safely unconscious from the laudanum-laced tea, not running down stairs and trying to knock him over. He continued through the lobby and up the stairs towards the third floor. They should be out for a while; he had plenty of time to search the room for the Key.

About half an hour later, Ardeth came back downstairs, his face stony, his thoughts churning almost too fast for him to keep up. He had planned this evening so carefully, and none of it had gone right. The Key was nowhere to be found. And neither was the Mouse; the woman he'd run into in the lobby had been her after all. She must not have drunk the tea. As for the old man…Ardeth swore under his breath in Arabic. No, nothing had gone right. He stopped at the front desk to murmur a few words, then headed for the dining room. That woman had gone in there. She was his last link to this lead; he had to find her.

That task, he soon discovered, was much easier than he could have ever dreamed. No sooner had he stepped over the threshold into the dining room than he heard a peal of laughter. He turned his head, and the very woman he sought had thrown her head back, laughing delightedly at something her companion had said. Ardeth smiled, partially from her infectious laughter, but mostly because something had finally gone his way that evening.

The Mouse was having dinner with Rick O'Connell.

He had already taken a couple steps towards their table when he froze in his tracks. What was he doing? By walking over there, by talking to her, she would have a name besides "The Mouse." She would become a living, breathing person, no longer just an obstacle to the Key. She may still have to die, and possibly by his own hand. It would be much harder to kill Rick O'Connell's friend than it would be to kill the Mouse.

Too late. Rick had already turned his head, saw him standing there, and made Ardeth's decision for him. Raising a hand, he waved the desert warrior over to his table.

"Ardeth, join us," he said. Ardeth had no choice to comply. "I want you to meet someone." He laid a hand on the Mouse's arm, whose eyes looked uncertainly in Ardeth's direction. She looked a little stunned; she must have recognized him from their abrupt meeting in the lobby. Rick, not noticing any of this, continued. "This is Margaret Crane. It's kind of a long story, but let's just say that she's my little sister. Meg, this is Ardeth Bay, an old friend of mine."

Ardeth took the hand she hesitantly extended and bowed his head over it, struggling to keep the surprise and shock from showing on his face. He suddenly remembered Rick saying something earlier in the week about a reunion with a childhood acquaintance. This must have been whom he was talking about. He fought the urge to scream in frustration.

"Miss Crane," he said instead, releasing her hand. "I trust you have recovered well enough?" Color filled her cheeks, and her eyes flew back to the tablecloth.

"Yes, thank you." Her voice was low, uncertain. She glanced up at him quickly, then back down again. Ardeth smiled inwardly. Close up, she was still a mouse, then. Good.

"Recovered?" Rick looked from one to the other.

Margaret- _no. The Mouse, _Ardeth thought. _Continue to think of her as the Mouse._ The Mouse answered Rick's question. "We met earlier, actually. I was in a bit of a hurry, and I'm afraid I ran into him in the lobby. Literally." Her voice was stronger when she spoke to Rick, Ardeth noticed. He wondered at her accent. She spoke carefully, properly, like an Englishwoman, yet her accent was American. Curious.

"You are on holiday here in Egypt?" Ardeth knew the answer to that question, of course, but he asked it all the same. He knew she lived in Egypt. But with that accent, she could not have lived here her entire life. What was an American woman doing living alone in Cairo, anyway?

And what did he care? He was here to get the Key back, not make idle conversation. Ardeth was beginning to get annoyed with himself.

She shook her head, risking another glance in his direction. "I live here, actually. At the mission."

"She teaches English to the local children," Rick added.

Ardeth looked at Margaret again, blinking in sudden recognition. "You are Mismeg?"

"Yes, I am!" Margaret replied with a sudden smile.

"Huh?" Rick looked confused.

Margaret laughed, the turn in the subject making a great deal of her shyness dissolve. "It's what the children call me. I felt that 'Miss Crane' made me sound far too old, and 'Miss Margaret' is too much of a mouthful for the younger children. So…I'm Mismeg." She leaned a little across the table in Ardeth's direction. "How did you know? Have I taught one of your children?"

The small laugh escaped out of Ardeth before he could check it. "No. The daughter of a friend. She has begun to attend school, and talks of little else. I have heard her speak of her teacher, 'Mismeg.'"

"What is her name?"

"Fatimah."

Margaret's face lit up further. "Fatimah, of course! She's a wonderful little girl. Very smart. She learned the Roman alphabet faster than many of the older children. She's a little mischievous too, if I'm remembering her correctly. She's one of the ones I have to always keep my eye on."

Ardeth nodded in agreement. He noticed that Margaret looked much less like a mouse when she talked about the children she taught. Her face lost that timid look and was much…softer. _No matter,_ he thought to himself sternly. _She is still a mouse, and she may still have the Key._

Suddenly, the smile slipped from Margaret's face. Ardeth realized her gaze had shifted to just over his left shoulder. He almost didn't turn around; he knew what she was looking at. The physician he had sent for must have arrived. But he turned anyway, and before he could turn back, Margaret had already jumped to her feet.

***

As Margaret looked from Rick's friend back to Rick again, movement in the lobby beyond the dining room caught her eye. Two people leaned close together. She could tell by the tension in their bodies that they were discussing something very urgent. One of the men picked up a bag by his feet and turned to the stairs, and for a couple of seconds Margaret could see his face clearly.

He was Dr. El-Hamin, Grandfather's physician.

"No," she whispered. She jumped to her feet, her napkin fluttering unnoticed to the floor.

"Meg? What's the matter?" Rick laid a concerned hand on her arm, but she barely noticed. She suddenly felt very cold, as if her blood had stopped flowing properly.

"Excuse me," she whispered through numb lips. Someone, probably Rick, called her name as she ran from the room, but she only dimly heard. All of her senses were focused forward, tunnel-vision-like, on the stairs in front of her. She tripped twice over her skirt going up the stairs, till she remembered to grasp the front of it and pull it up. She paused for a second on the third floor landing, her breath hammering in her lungs. Her blood was definitely flowing again; she could hear it rushing in her ears.

Grandfather's door stood wide open. She had left it closed.

"Grandfather." The word tore out of her with a moan. She started forward again, but was halted in her tracks by a strong hand around her upper arm.

"No," a low voice grated in her ear. She whirled to face Ardeth. In a flash, took him in. He was also breathing a little hard from the run up the stairs. His face was determined, almost stern, but his eyes were softer. Sympathy? He gripped her arm so tightly it hurt. "Don't go in there now," he said quietly. "Let the doctor do his work."

She stared at him for a long moment, almost as if she didn't understand him. Rick stood behind him, one stair down. He looked past the man in black to Margaret.

"Meg?" he said again, reaching for her other arm.

She shrugged away from both of them with a violence that startled them all. With a quick movement, she turned and ran down the hallway, into Grandfather's room. She stopped in the doorway, clutching the jamb. Dr. El-Hamin knelt just outside the balcony doors, his attention focused on the cane chair just out of sight.

"Doctor?" Her voice had stopped working; the word came out as a whisper. She walked a few small steps into the room. She heard footsteps behind her, and she knew that the men were still with her. But they sounded so far away. The blood in her ears rushed faster, louder. "Doctor?" she said again, louder this time.

He looked up at her then, and she knew. Her eyes went from his face to the chair where, at this angle, she could see one limp hand dangling from the arm of the chair. "I'm sorry, Miss Crane." She could barely hear him over the sound of the rushing blood in her head. She pressed her hands to her mouth and shook her head, hard, side to side. She felt two warm, firm hands squeeze her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. She knew without looking that it was Rick. But she couldn't turn, couldn't acknowledge that comfort. All she could do was shake her head, over and over, as the blood rushed louder and louder…

The darkness swirled up and swallowed Margaret, and she collapsed, unconscious, into Rick's arms.

***

Before she even opened her eyes, Margaret could tell she wasn't in her bed. And she hadn't dreamed of Imhotep. That disappointed her, but something was upsetting her even more. What was it? It was something that had happened right before she went to sleep…

Her eyes fluttered open. She watched the ceiling fan above the bed go around and around for a few moments before she registered that she was in a hotel room. Rick's room. Rick himself sat in a chair by her bed. He smiled gently at her when she turned her eyes to him.

"There you are," he said quietly. And it all came crashing back to her. She hadn't dreamed because she hadn't been asleep. She'd fainted. Right after she'd gone into Grandfather's room and saw…

"Grandfather!" She bolted upright, and the room spun around. Rick reached out for her, gripping her shoulders and gently forcing her to sit back against the pillows.

"Take it easy," he said. "Just lie back for a few minutes. You had a pretty bad shock. Here…" He handed her a glass off the table by the bed. "Take a couple sips of this. It'll help."

Without smelling the liquid inside the glass, Margaret could tell it was some kind of alcohol. Whiskey, perhaps. Or brandy. Didn't they always give brandy to people after they passed out? She tried to hand the glass back to Rick. "I don't need…"

He wouldn't take it. "I said drink it." She took one look at his face, and dutifully sipped. She had a feeling that he talked to his son in much the same way. The whiskey was strong, and made her cough, but the warmth that coated her throat and burned into her chest did make her feel a little better. The room spun a little less.

"Thank you," she said, placing the glass back on the table after taking a few more sips. He shook his head, jerking his thumb in the direction of the door.

"Don't thank me," he said. "Thank him. It was his idea." Margaret turned her head to see Ardeth standing just inside the door, his arms crossed. He nodded to her as their eyes met, but she said nothing.

Turning her attention back to Rick, she said, "Tell me what happened. Did the doctor say what happened to Grandfather? How he…" She couldn't finish that sentence.

Rick nodded slowly. "He said it was laudanum."

Margaret squinted at him, confused. "Laudanum? But he took laudanum all the time. For the pain, to help him sleep some nights when the pain was bad. I gave him…he took some tonight…" her words trailed off as she remembered. 

"He did?" Ardeth's voice startled her. He had stepped further into the room, and was standing at the foot of the bed, practically glaring at her. She nodded, throwing a glance his way.

"I've given it to him before. I didn't give him too much." But her voice wavered, as if she were trying to convince herself. She looked at Rick, her eyes almost pleading. "That can't be it. Are you sure?"

Rick shrugged. "I don't think anyone can be sure. But that's what the doctor said. There weren't any signs of a struggle, no pain. It just looked like he fell asleep."

Margaret closed her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another. "He…he was all I had," she said, her voice sounding very small. Rick gathered her into his arms, holding her just like he held his son when he had a nightmare. Ardeth didn't move, but he followed the two with his eyes.

After a few moments, she pulled away from Rick, wiping her tears away with her fingertips. Her head was bowed, and she only spoke one word, but she spoke so clearly that neither man missed what she said.

"Hamunaptra."

"_What?_" Rick grabbed her shoulders again. Ardeth gripped the bedpost, hard. "What did you say?"

She met his eyes warily. "I said 'Hamunaptra.' It's…well, it's supposed to be this place. A lost city of some kind." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I know it sounds like I'm losing my mind, but I have to go there."

Rick and Ardeth exchanged a look. Rick looked worried, but Ardeth looked as impassive as ever, although his eyes seemed to flash with an emotion Margaret couldn't identify. "Why?" Rick finally asked. "Meg, you're not making any sense. You told me yourself that you hate adventure. You didn't even want to come to London. Now you want to go looking for some mythical city? What's going on?"

Margaret opened her mouth, then closed it again. What was she going to say? _Well, you see, Rick, Grandfather gave me this little puzzle box. He said I have to go to Hamunaptra and give it to the Medjai. Yes, I know, Hamunaptra's not supposed to exist. Neither are the Medjai. But I have to go anyway… Plus there's this long dead priest named Imhotep that wants me to go to Hamunaptra too. I think it's all connected. What do you say, you want to tag along?_ She shook her head. It didn't really make any sense to her in her own head. What would Rick think of her?

"I have to go there," she repeated. "I made a promise to Grandfather. I know it sounds crazy, but there are books. One of them is bound to have a map of some kind. I've got to find it."

"Meg, listen to me." Rick looked serious. Even more serious than when he was forcing whiskey on her. "You do not want to do this. Hamunaptra is not a place you want to be messing with. Believe me on this one."

She stared at him, realization dawning in her eyes. "You've been there. It does exist."

He nodded. "Yes. And I'm telling you--"

"Then you can take me!" she interrupted, no longer listening to him in her excitement.

"No." His voice cut through hers. "I can't." 

"But why not?"

"Because," His voice was firm. "That place is nothing but evil. There is no reason on this earth for anyone to go there. Especially you." They looked at each other, each more resolute than the other.

"I understand," she said finally, breaking the eye contact and looking down at her hands in her lap. "You want to get home to your family. They come first. Of course they do." Her voice broke on that last word. She got to her feet, not looking up, not wanting to meet Rick's eyes. "Don't take me. Go home to them. I'll find another way." Her voice shook nearly as much as her hands did. Part of her didn't understand what she was saying. How was she going to do this alone? But rather than falter, she started for the door.

"Wait. What?" Rick was at the door before her, blocking her way. He gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "Family isn't the issue here. You know that." She said nothing, just stared up at him. He glanced over her shoulder at Ardeth, then looked back down at her. Finally, he threw up his hands. "All right! Fine. We'll go. I'll take you there, you'll see it, and we'll come back fast. You got me?"

Margaret didn't smile. After what she'd been through that evening, smiling wasn't really an option. But the hard look in her eyes faded.

"Thank you," she said quietly. Rick sighed.

"We'll leave in the morning," said a quiet voice behind her. She turned around to face Ardeth.

"There's no reason for you to go with us…" she began.

"Oh, yes there is," Rick broke in behind her. "He knows the way better than I do, trust me. He's our best chance at getting in and out of there alive."

"But…" Margaret never voiced the objection she had in her head. She didn't want that strange man going with them. She didn't really know why, but there was something about him that she didn't trust, somehow. Like there was more to him than he was letting on. If she could only put her finger on it…

But Rick trusted him. And she needed to go to Hamunaptra. Despite the bravado she had tried to display, she needed Rick to take her. So, like it or not, Ardeth Bay was going too.

***

She was afraid of him. Ardeth could tell by the way that she never quite looked him in the eyes when she spoke to him. Instead, her eyes skidded over his face and came to rest on the wall just to his left. Ardeth wondered idly why she was afraid. Was she afraid of him specifically, or did she fear strangers in general?

He watched her leave Rick's room with impassive eyes. The old man's death had been unfortunate, but an accident. He didn't have the Key. But this woman did. Her desire to go to Hamunaptra had convinced him. She either had it, or the old man had hidden it, and she knew where to find it. As long as he stayed close, he knew he'd eventually retrieve it.

But O'Connell obviously loved this woman as a sister. And he would do everything he could to protect her. Ardeth didn't know whether to laugh or put his fist through the wall. Was it only a few days ago that he had watched the Mouse on the balcony, and reflected on how easy this would all be? In the past few hours, his task had suddenly become very, very difficult.

As the door closed behind Margaret, Ardeth turned to look at his friend.

"What was that you said about no more adventures?"

Rick sighed. "Shut up."


	6. Opening Up, Giving Up, and Growing Up

Chapter Six

Again, thanks for all the feedback. It means a lot to me! Thanks especially to Rebecca for all the emails and encouragement.

Chapter Six

Rick smiled, watching the moon reflect off the water. This trip down the Nile had been surprisingly peaceful. But then, compared to the last time he had made this trip, some eleven years ago, it was bound to be. When your last voyage down the Nile involved being attacked by Medjai warriors and swimming for your life after the boat bursts into flames, just about anything would be peaceful in comparison.

He sat on the deck, cleaning and loading the many guns in the arsenal he'd packed. Doing this was a ritual for him, almost a meditation. His hands moved automatically while his mind wandered. He thought about a night eleven years ago on a barge just like this, when he had been engaged in the same activity. Evelyn Carnahan had sat across the table from him. By the way, why did you kiss me? _I dunno, I was about to be hanged, it seemed like a good idea at the time._ He winced a little at the memory. That was a conversation that had gone very badly. He had made up for it, of course, by saving her life. More than once. But she still never let him forget it.

"Is this seat taken?"

Jolted out of his thoughts, Rick looked up. He smiled, pushing the chair out with his foot.

"It is now. Sit down. You feeling any better?"

Margaret nodded. Being out on the water had really not agreed with her at first. She had spent most of the three-day trip moaning in her stateroom. Tonight was the first time she had ventured out. "Much better, thank you," she said. She said nothing else, just looked out at the water for a few moments. Rick went back to cleaning his guns. When he looked up a few minutes later, he saw that she had pulled a lace shawl out of the small bag she carried. Her fingers moved of their own volition, looping the thin cotton into intricate patterns over and around two wooden sticks. She only looked down at her work occasionally, concentrating most of her attention out to the water. Rick hadn't understood why Margaret had brought a knitting bag with her on this journey, but suddenly it made sense to him. This was her meditation, just as cleaning guns was his.

They both worked in a companionable silence for a few minutes more before she spoke.

"Are you very angry with me?"

Rick glanced up, surprised. "I'm not angry with you at all. What makes you say that?"

"I know you didn't want to do this." She sighed and rested the knitting in her lap, looking straight at him. "You think it's a foolish idea, and I don't blame you. I wonder the same thing myself sometimes," she said, picking up her knitting again.

Rick set one of his guns down and picked up another, stripping it down and beginning to oil it. "I'm not angry. I'm afraid. There's a difference."

"Why are you afraid?"

Rick thought for a moment. "Let me tell you how I met my wife."

"You already told me that." Margaret looked confused.

"The long version." He took a deep breath. "There was this three thousand year old mummy..."

He told her everything. Well, not quite everything. Margaret had always been a very gentle soul, as far as he was concerned, and although he wanted her to know the dangers he had gone through, he saw no point in frightening her unnecessarily with gory details of things that had happened over ten years ago. There were also certain memories he just didn't want to revisit, like Evelyn's death and subsequent resurrection. And almost watching her burn alive in the basement of the British Museum. Those memories still haunted him sometimes in the middle of the night, and he had no desire to encourage them. Not when he was so far away from his wife that he couldn't reassure himself by pulling her close. 

Margaret sat back when he was finished, her eyes wide. Her knitting sat idle in her lap. For a few moments she didn't say anything, just absorbed his tale. Then she took a deep breath, just as Rick had before he had begun the story. "Well, don't worry," she finally said. "I have no plans to bring anyone back from the dead or read from any books." Her voice faltered on that last word, however, and she looked a little thoughtful. She shook her head and picked up her knitting again.

"So what are your plans, then?" Rick asked, reassembling his gun. She knit a few stitches, thinking, then shrugged with a little laugh.

"It's hard to say, really. But I've been having these dreams."

Rick dropped a gun part. "Oh, no. Not dreams again."

"What?"

"Nothing. Sorry. Continue."

With a raised eyebrow in his direction, she complied. "Well, Grandfather mentioned it first. Telling me to go to Hamunaptra, I mean. I thought he was a little crazy, I really did. But then there's been this man in my dreams. He's this...incredible person, a strong presence. These dreams are so real, they're not like any dreams I've ever had." She broke off for a second, her eyes clouded with memory. Her skin flushed a little pink, a small smile crept to her face, and in the space of a second, she was more beautiful than Rick had ever seen her. _She's in love_, he realized_. With a guy in her dreams._ He'd heard stranger things. After a moment, she continued. "The other night, he mentioned Hamunaptra too, and, well..." She leaned across the table, as if she were sharing a confidence. "Have you ever just had the feeling that you needed to do something, even if you're not sure what it is exactly? Or why? But all the same, you have to do it?"

Rick groaned and leaned his head back. "No, not personally. But I know someone who knows exactly what you're talking about." He could hear Evy's voice in his head, as clearly as if she were speaking to him now_. It's just an oasis..._

Margaret sat back again. "So I just need to go there. I guess I'm hoping that once I get there, the man in my dream will tell me what I'm supposed to do. Because I certainly don't know now."

"Well, I hope you find out fast. We're not going to just hang around there, waiting for inspiration to strike you."

She nodded. "I understand. I don't want to be away from home any longer than I have to be. I already miss my own bed."

Rick snickered. "Just wait till you're sleeping on the ground in the desert. Then you'll really miss it." 

She moaned with mock horror. "I don't want to think about that now," she said. "I've just gotten to the point where I can walk on this boat without being sick."

"Well, hang in there, sister," he replied. "The adventure's just beginning."

"Great," she said sarcastically, replacing her shawl in its bag. She stood, pressing a doubtful hand to her stomach. "I'm starting to feel a little queasy again. I think I'll turn in, try and get a little more rest."

"You do that. We have a big day tomorrow." Rick bid her good night and watched her walk, more or less steadily, down the deck and into the corridor that led to her stateroom. His forehead creased in a frown. He had the nagging feeling that, in trying to not scare her too much, he hadn't scared her enough. Maybe he didn't tell her enough about all they went through at Hamunaptra and Ahm Shere. Maybe he had left out too many details. Names, for example. But there were certain names that he never wanted to pass his lips again, and those included Imhotep and Anck-su-Namun. There was no need for her to know their names anyway. Those two were dead and gone. For good, this time.

He started putting his guns away. He should get to bed soon himself. The boat docked tomorrow morning, and they still had two days' ride before they reached Hamunaptra. He hoped that Margaret knew how to ride, because he was intending to do this fast.

***

Ardeth Bay was sick and tired of skulking. He was a Medjai chieftain, a leader of his people. He was an elite fighter, skilled in combat, and he had proven his valor time and again on the battlefield. And for the second time in a week, he was breaking into someone's bedroom, like a common criminal, and rifling through their things. He didn't like this at all.

He stepped into the corridor, closing the door to the Mouse's stateroom behind him. If she were in possession of the Key, she would have it here. Surely she would take it to Hamunaptra. But Ardeth had not found it in her room. He heaved a long sigh as he continued down the corridor, away from her room and towards his. As far as this lead was concerned, it was time to admit defeat. The old man had not had the Key before he died. This woman did not have it now. The lead had been a false one.

It was time to focus his attentions elsewhere. For now, his task was clear. He would accompany them to Hamunaptra. There was a small contingent of Medjai there already: the ones he had sent days ago to search for the Book of Amun-Ra. Some of them may recognize O'Connell, but Ardeth couldn't be sure of that. It would be best if he went along, to explain their presence.

That last thought made him stop short. Just how would he do that? It occurred to him that he now had no idea why they were going to Hamunaptra. It had made some semblance of sense the day before, when he thought she had the Key. But now... 

Ardeth shook his head. All things would be revealed in their proper time. He simply had to trust in Allah, and be patient until then.

***

"Can you ride?" Rick asked, leading a horse over to stand in front of Margaret.

"Um..." She looked at the beast uncertainly. There were more motorcars than horses on the streets of Cairo these days. She'd never had an occasion to ride a horse before. And yet, dimly, she seemed to remember being on one, a long time ago. It must have been during her life before, she thought. Before the orphanage. She remembered a tall man, and a woman in a blue dress. She strained at the memory.

Rick's hopeful expression changed to something between crestfallen and annoyed. "You can't. Okay, here's what you..."

"Wait. Wait." She held up a hand, still thinking hard. She approached the horse and looked carefully at the saddle. It all looked so familiar, but... She looked over to Rick. "Help me up?" She almost winced at the impatient look he gave her. He directed her to put her left foot in the stirrup and, as he lifted her up, she instinctively swung her leg over the side, settling herself into the saddle. Her hands automatically reached for the reins, and she sat back, her posture straight. She glanced down at Rick, who looked as surprised as she felt.

"I think I can ride," she said with a pleased smile.

"You can sit a horse," Rick corrected, swinging up onto his own mount. "Whether or not you can ride remains to be seen." He winked at her, reminding her that he was just teasing. "Remember what I told you last night. The adventure's just beginning." With that he rode off, his horse falling into step easily with Ardeth's.

Neither man looked back; they obviously expected her to keep up. She wanted to call out, to ask them to wait for her. But she stopped herself before any sound came out of her mouth. This journey was her idea. She was no longer a child, an imitation nun, hiding behind books in a museum library. She was on a horse, on the bank of the Nile, setting off for Hamunaptra, like a real adventurer. It was time that she grew up, and started behaving like the adult that she knew was in there somewhere.

Besides, she thought to herself. Imhotep didn't see her as a child. He saw her as a woman. Last night's dream had certainly proven that, she remembered with a blush. And he needed her to go to Hamunaptra for him. She couldn't let him down. She kicked her heels gently against the horse's sides, and set off towards her future. 

***

She was riding pretty well, Ardeth noticed. She was no horsewoman, by any means, but she had a good natural seat, and was keeping up with the fast pace with little complaint. While they rode, he caught her studying both the turban he wore, and the makeshift fabric covering Rick had fashioned into a similar turban. When they stopped around midday to rest, she dug into her pack, and pulled out what looked to Ardeth like a cotton nightdress. A few minutes later, she had cut it to pieces, discarded her hat, and had made a head covering similar to Rick's. He nodded his approval as he walked over to where she stood, her back to him. She had put her scissors away, and was tying the makeshift turban to her head, trying to tuck the ends in the back. He reached up to tuck them in for her, his fingers brushing against hers as he did so. She glanced up at the touch, and then twitched away from him, breaking contact.

"Thank you," she said, her voice flat. "But I've got it." He nodded to her, almost in a bow. To his surprise, she narrowed her eyes at his pleasantry, and walked a few steps away, turning her back to him to secure her pack onto her horse. He simply stood and watched her walk away, rooted to the ground in surprise. What had he done to offend her? That thought nearly made him laugh out loud. What hadn't he done? In the past week, he had planned more than one way to kill her, if need be. He had searched through not only her possessions, but also those of someone she held very dear. He had attempted to drug her. He had, albeit accidentally, killed the one person in her life she looked on as family. Other than that, though, he hadn't done a thing. 

His mind clicked through the night before, when he'd searched her room on the riverboat. Had he left something out of place? Even if he had, there would be no reason for her to suspect him. He shook his head finally, getting back on his own horse. He was putting problems where there were none. Women could be irrational in the best of circumstances, and she had been through a lot in the past few days. As they started off again, he put her cold behavior out of his mind. There were more important things to worry about.

***

Margaret's scalp had been on fire when they stopped at midday. Her sun hat did nothing against the heat of the desert. As the morning had worn on, she looked at Ardeth's headcovering, and then Rick's. After a few minutes of thinking, she understood. Her hat was made of straw, and still let the sun through the holes. She needed a cloth covering, to protect her head from the burning rays. When they stopped, she took off her sun hat and stashed it in a pack. She then fished through another pack and found what she was looking for: the cotton nightgown she had worn on the boat. She certainly wasn't going to be changing into a nightgown out here in the desert; she had no further need for it. Taking the scissors from her knitting bag, she cut it into long, wide pieces and managed to make a decent covering from it. Smiling in self-satisfaction, she placed it on her head, anchoring it by winding a narrower strip around her head. She tied it in the back and was just tucking in the ends when she felt fingers covering her own. She had been looking straight ahead in Rick's direction, so she knew who was behind her.

Ardeth Bay. Rick's friend. A killer.

A glance over her shoulder confirmed it, and she jerked reflexively out of his reach. She managed to thank him somewhat politely for his assistance, and he had the audacity to bow cordially at her! She couldn't trust herself to speak further, so she simply walked away, shaking, to attend to her horse. She leaned her head against the horse's flank, trying to sort out her jumbled thoughts. Ardeth had been nothing but polite to her since their meeting a few days ago. He had even been pleasant when she'd nearly knocked him off his feet in the hotel lobby. She thought again about Rick's story from the night before. Ardeth had figured pretty strongly in the narrative; it was obvious the two had fought side by side.

And he was certainly handsome to look at. He had a strong face: proud and determined. She had also seen his countenance relax into an easy smile, especially when he talked to Rick. She wondered still at the tattoos on his face, and what they meant. Instead of making him appear frightening, or marring his looks in any way, they enhanced his features, rendering him even more striking in appearance. Yes, he certainly was handsome.

That didn't matter, she reminded herself sternly. Handsome men could be killers just as readily as ill-favored ones.

And that was what he was. Something had bothered her about Ardeth Bay from the moment he had offered to go with them to Hamunaptra, but she had never been able to determine what it was. While riding this morning, she had had time to examine her thoughts, and it suddenly came to her.

"_Don't go in there,"_ he had said, gripping her arm so tightly that it had hurt. "_Let the doctor do his work._"

The doctor.

How did he know there had been a doctor in there with Grandfather? How had he known Grandfather had needed a doctor at all? He may not have killed Grandfather directly, but she knew that somehow, he had had a hand in his death.

She lifted her head off the horse's flank. Could she talk to Rick about this? Probably not. She had no proof, nothing solid to accuse him of. Rick trusted him: evidently with his life. She, in turn, trusted Rick with hers. But she couldn't trust Ardeth.

She mounted up again, a new resolve on her face. She would keep an eye on Ardeth, and keep her wits about her. If there truly was something sinister about him, she would find out. She would warn Rick, and maybe they could act before it was too late.


	7. Eyes of a Different Color

Ardeth knelt by the fire, staring into the flames

Note: Big Thanks to Rebecca on this chapter, for taking notes during the movie, for cracking the whip on me, and for being a great beta-reader. HDWS!

Chapter Seven

They rode all afternoon, and well into the evening. When she had begun the journey that morning, Margaret had been well pleased with herself. She had had no idea that she was able to sit a horse, much less ride. It had been like finding a piece of herself that she hadn't even realized was missing. But now, hours later, she wished with all of her being that she was not on a horse, had never been on a horse, and would never have to get on a horse again. Her eyes burned from an entire day spent staring at nothing but blinding sun and sand. Her back hurt from holding the proper riding posture for so long, and her thighs hurt from gripping the horse's sides to keep her seat.

The moon had already started to rise in the sky when Rick called a halt for the evening. Ardeth rode ahead over the next dune, vanishing from sight while Rick and Margaret waited. Her expression darkened as she watched him ride off. Where was he going? Was he sending some kind of signal, letting others know where they were? Was he part of a group of bandits, who would rob Rick and Margaret, and murder them while they slept? Her mind darted from one suspicion to another. Why did Rick trust this man so?

A few minutes later Ardeth returned, with a small nod to Rick.

"We have covered good ground today," he said. "We should reach the city by mid-day tomorrow."

"Everything else look okay?" Rick asked. The tattooed warrior nodded again.

"I saw no campfires in any direction. We should remain undisturbed."

"Really." The sarcastic response was out of her mouth before she realized it. It all felt too convenient for her. He rides out, tells them they're perfectly safe, and then when they least expect it…

Ardeth turned his head to look at her. She felt a flush creep up the back of her neck at his scrutiny, but held her head erect, sitting as tall in her saddle as her aching back would let her. 

"Yes," he answered after a few moments. Her face burned a little more, and she almost wished she hadn't said anything. It was much less frightening to dislike him silently than to confront him directly. She looked over to where Rick had already dismounted. He was pulling his bedroll and weapons satchel off his horse, and was obviously content to trust Ardeth. She had no choice but to do the same.

Margaret sighed. What did it matter, anyway? She didn't care if they were camping in the ninth circle of Hell; she just wanted to get off that horse. She swung her leg over and slid off, moaning aloud as she sank down to sit right on the ground. Her legs didn't seem to want to hold her up properly, and every inch of her body hurt. 

"You okay?" Rick asked with a smile, extending a hand to help her up. She took it, groaning in pain as she let him do all the work in getting her to her feet.

"I'm great," she replied, brushing sand off of her riding skirt. "I'm tired, I hurt, and I wish I was dead." He laughed.

"Cheer up," he said. "You'll feel better in the morning. The first night's always the worst, but when you get back on the second day, it'll be much better."

She looked up at him with a mock glare. "I just got off the blasted thing," she said. "I don't want to think about getting back on just yet, if it's all the same to you." She turned around to untie her bedroll from the other supplies her horse carried, removing her makeshift turban as she did so.

"Hey." She turned around. "You did really well today," Rick said quietly. "To be honest, I didn't know you had it in you. I'm proud of you." He clapped her on the shoulder, gently, and then moved off to help Ardeth set up camp.

Margaret smiled wearily, watching him walk away. She dropped her bedroll to the ground and shook out her hair. She had never felt so bedraggled in her life. The split riding skirt had been a good idea. But the new white blouse had been a mistake; after one day's wear it was already stained with travel dust and grime, and made her look even dingier than she felt. Her usual hairstyle had turned out to be no good; most of her hair had fallen out of its knot during the day's ride. Too tired to look for a comb, she picked out the knots with her fingers as best she could and worked it into a loose braid. Yes, she was tired and she hurt. But she had also never felt so good in her life. So alive.

***

Ardeth knelt by the fire, staring into the flames. Rick had taken first watch; Ardeth knew he should take advantage of the time and get some rest. They were pushing themselves hard. Rick obviously wanted to get this over and get back to Cairo quickly. He still feared Hamunaptra. Ardeth didn't blame him. Sometimes, so did he. 

He glanced behind him to where Margaret slept soundly, her head pillowed on one of the small bags she carried. She was not someone who was used to sleeping on the ground, so her deep sleep must mean that she was exhausted. Ardeth found himself wondering again why she wanted to go to Hamunaptra so badly. She didn't have the Key; he had finally arrived at that conclusion on the barge. But the thought still gnawed at the back of his mind. If she didn't have the Key, if she had no connection to Hamunaptra, then why were they here? Why had she made such a promise to the old man? 

He allowed himself a small smile as he thought about Margaret. Rick's relationship with her was a close one; it was obvious that the two shared an easy rapport. But she certainly didn't like him, Ardeth thought, vaguely amused. In deference to their mutual friendship with Rick, Ardeth had attempted conversation with her a few times that day. Those times that she had deigned to answer him, her responses had been curt and cold. Ardeth wasn't offended; her friendship wasn't important. He wondered now that he had ever thought of her as a mouse. Shrew was perhaps more appropriate, he thought with a rueful smile. He turned his attention back to the fire, gazing into it as if he could read his future there.

Behind him, Margaret dreamed.

***

This dream was different from all the rest. Before, Imhotep had always appeared to her as a beautiful, bronzed, almost superhuman man, someone who took her breath away. Someone who took her into his arms and did wonderful things, whispered fantastic promises.

This time, he didn't appear to her at all. Not at first. At first all she saw was a swirling mist. Next, a voice spoke in her ear. "The time has come," the voice said, " to do for me what you have promised. To do for me what I cannot. It is time for me to show you who it is that is against us. Who it is that we must destroy."

Wordlessly, she nodded. It was his voice. But it sounded different. It was less loving, more determined. She knew the promise he spoke of. She had given that promise over and over during their nights together. But it had always been a vague promise; she'd agreed to always help him, to overcome those forces that would keep them apart. It had all seemed terribly romantic at the time. But now, when faced with the reality of that promise, Margaret realized that she was afraid. What had she agreed to do, exactly?

The mist cleared. She was standing in…well, it looked like a basement. Of a museum, perhaps. Large crates, like the ones she had helped Rick pack in Cairo, were all pushed to the sides of the room. The center of the room had become a kind of makeshift Egyptian temple, with fearsome statues and flaming torches. She stood in the center of the room, surrounded by soldiers, warriors of some kind, dressed in red. The soldiers were all kneeling, arranged in a large circle around her. Inside the circle, not far from where Margaret was standing was a woman, wearing a triumphant expression. Her hair was as black as her dress, and it accentuated her olive complexion. She was beautiful, but her beauty was otherworldly, almost as if she were a princess from another time.

She was paying no attention to Margaret. She was talking to a desiccated corpse, who listened and talked back, moving around the woman in a slow circle.

Margaret knew she should be repulsed, horrified even, but somehow she wasn't. The corpse was Imhotep. She was sure of it, and so she was not afraid of him. She had no idea what had happened to him, why he appeared to her this way. But it was obvious that something was very wrong. She had to help him.

Suddenly, both he and the woman turned in her direction. 

"Burn her!" Imhotep shouted in the language he always used in their dreams. The woman echoed the command in English. Margaret fell back a couple of steps, alarmed. Then she realized they weren't talking about her. Some of the soldiers behind her had picked up a wooden plank, and were carrying a dark-haired woman bound hand and foot towards a large sarcophagus, which contained a blazing fire. The victim struggled, but it was apparent that there was no escape for her. 

Until a man jumped through the flames and saved her.

Because of the fire, Margaret couldn't see the face of the woman's savior. She started to look closer when the room erupted in gunfire. She dropped to the ground, covering her head with her arms as Imhotep looked up at the catwalk, to the source of the gunfire. She followed his gaze and cried out in surprise.

Ardeth Bay stood there, holding a machine gun, spraying death upon them all.

For a split second, she felt triumphant. She knew it! She knew that Ardeth couldn't be trusted. When she woke up, she would have to tell Rick…

But Imhotep caught her attention. Instead of trying to flee the bullets, he took a few steps in Ardeth's direction, almost squinting to get a better look. He only spoke one word, but it shocked Margaret to her core.

"Medjai!" he howled, pointing up at the black-robed warrior.

"_What?_" Margaret cried out from her place on the floor. She looked up at Ardeth, who was still firing into the crowd. She strained to see him clearly, as if in doing so she could better understand. "Medjai?" she repeated. Her voice was incredulous. Ardeth was a Medjai? They did exist. Grandfather had been right after all. But weren't they supposed to be a good and noble people? Then why was he trying to kill her? Her mind spun crazily, as if rational thought was just out of reach.

***

Margaret was obviously having a very vivid dream. She tossed, turned this way and that, and occasionally muttered unintelligible words. Ardeth stirred the fire with a stick, but didn't turn in her direction. She needed rest; waking her from a vivid dream would make her even more tired than before she went to sleep.

"_What?_" In the midst of all her mumbling, that word flew out of her mouth, clear as day. Ardeth glanced over his shoulder at her. She was curled up on her right side, with her arms around her head, as if she was trying to protect herself. She jerked in her sleep. "Medjai!" she cried out.

Ardeth dropped the stick in surprise, turning all the way around to look at her. Had he heard her correctly? He had, for soon after she said it again. He was thunderstruck. What did she know about the Medjai? He crept nearer to her. Perhaps she would continue to talk, and he could learn more. He could finally find out what her connection was to Hamunaptra.

***

Gunshots were being fired all around her. Margaret was terrified. She crawled towards Imhotep. She didn't know what he could do for her, but he was the only familiar person in this dream. Well, the only familiar person not currently shooting at her, anyway. She needed to be by his side, for there she would feel safe.

Suddenly, Imhotep whirled, and howled again. "YOU!!" Margaret jumped to her feet and looked, wondering what fresh hell was falling upon them now. What could be worse than machine-gun fire?

She looked into the face of Rick O'Connell.

For a moment she stood frozen. She couldn't even breathe. "Rick?" Her voice was tiny, even in her own head. Rick raised a large shotgun, his face set in stone, and fired right at Imhotep. She clapped her hands over her ears against the noise. Rick ducked behind some crates, then jumped back out again, this time with the dark-haired woman he had saved from a fiery death. The woman had a gun too, and both of them fired into the crowd as they made their escape. Margaret cried out, but still she didn't move. Another spray of bullets up above from Ardeth, and something behind her exploded, knocking her to the ground again. She watched as Rick ran up the stairs away from her, with the woman following behind him. They joined Ardeth on the catwalk, and all three of them stared down at Margaret.

No. They stared down _behind_ her.

Imhotep had moved to take up a large urn. He spoke a few words, and sand flew out of the urn, coalescing into a quartet of undead soldiers. They were more fearsome than anything Margaret had seen in her worst nightmares. They appeared to be little more than rotted corpses, as gray as death. But then they opened their mouths to roar a battle cry, and Margaret wanted to cover her ears again. Why had Imhotep summoned these creatures?

Imhotep pointed up at the fleeing trio. "DESTROY THEM!!" he bellowed.

"_No!_" Margaret screamed. Destroy _Rick_? Why did he want to destroy Rick, of all people? What was going on? For the first time since these dreams had begun, she felt that something was very, very wrong. She knew she could figure it out, if she only had time to think for a moment. She had to get away, had to get out of the dream…

She struggled, feeling as if she were struggling within her own mind, as a soldier in red gripped her arm and shook her and shook her…

***

Margaret moaned and cried out more, but remained asleep. Ardeth watched her for a few moments, and then gave up. The words she had spoken must have been a fluke of some kind. He started to stand to go back to the fire, when…

"Rick?" Her voice was clear again, yet her eyes remained closed. Her hands had closed into fists, and she seemed to grow more and more agitated. "Destroy them!" she suddenly called out in perfect Egyptian. Ardeth dropped back to his knees beside her. She didn't speak Egyptian, did she? "No!" she cried out. "No no no no no no no…" Her voice grew more and more anguished, and she squirmed, as if she were trying to escape something.

Enough. It was time to wake her. He placed a tentative hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. "Margaret. Wake up now. Come back," he said. She didn't respond, just repeated "no" over and over in her sleep. He shook her a little harder, leaning down a little closer. Suddenly she jerked, her left arm coming up as if to strike him. Reflexively, he blocked the blow, gripping her wrist and pinning it to the sand. The momentum of the movement pulled Margaret over onto her back, taking Ardeth with her so that he ended up sprawled across her, her left wrist still gripped in his hand, their faces inches apart. 

Her eyes snapped open, and for a long moment his heart stopped. The eyes that looked up at him weren't hers! They glittered in the firelight, dark brown and angry. Ardeth was stunned at the hatred he saw in their depths. In a split second, those eyes promised him death. She blinked once, twice, and her eyes were light gray again, the hatred replaced by sleepy confusion and fear. Ardeth could suddenly feel her heart pounding against his chest, feel her struggle beneath him to slow her breathing. Her expression shifted. She looked at him as if she had never seen him before.

She moved her right hand. She didn't struggle against him or try to free herself. She simply brought her fingertips up to touch his cheek. As he felt the path her fingers were taking, he realized she was tracing the curve of the tattoo there.

"You…" her voice was a whisper. She let her hand drop again and it fell back to the ground. "You are Medjai." It wasn't a question. She was stating a fact.

He released her wrist and pulled himself off of her. She sat up on her bedroll, still staring at him. "Yes." His voice was low as he answered her.

She dropped her head into her hands, and he realized she was shaking. He knelt down beside her again. He started to reach out to touch her shoulder, to ask her what she had dreamed that had frightened her so…

"Meg? What happened?" Rick strode over to them from the other side of the fire. Ardeth dropped his hand. Perhaps this would be better. She preferred to talk to Rick than to him; maybe the three of them could figure this out together.

Ardeth Bay had a feeling that this was going to be a night of answers.

***

"It was nothing, Rick. I'm telling you," Margaret protested. "Just a bad dream." But her voice sounded hollow. She was lying; they all knew it. But Rick nodded, stowing his gun back in his holster with a glance at Ardeth, whose brow was furrowed in thought.

"If you say so," he said. Margaret winced at his tone. She hated lying to him, but she just needed to think. And she couldn't do that with Rick hovering over her, watching her like a mother hen. There was something very important on the edge of her consciousness, the key to everything. She just had to think of it, and the whole puzzle would make sense.

Rick was halfway around the fire, looking out into the night. She hoped he wasn't mad at her. He'd been so nice to her, taking her to Hamunaptra after all he had already been through there…

__

All he had already been through.

"Oh my God." Her voice was low, but both men froze at the intensity in it. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling in her haste, and ran around the fire to grab Rick's arm.

"The mummy you told me about," she said haltingly. She could barely hear her own voice over the feel of her heart pounding in her head. She knew. She knew. "The one you killed. The three thousand year old mummy. What was his name_?_"

He looked at her for a long moment, confusion in his eyes, but something else too. Fear? Dread?

She gripped his arm harder. She could almost feel her nails digging into his flesh. "Rick!" Her voice was anguished, tinged with fear. "_What was his name?_" Rick opened his mouth, but the voice that answered wasn't his.

"Imhotep," said Ardeth, who had moved to stand near them. Margaret looked over her shoulder at him for a couple of seconds, then looked back at Rick, almost as if she were looking to him for confirmation. Rick nodded.

"His name was Imhotep," he finally said, echoing Ardeth.

For a few seconds, the words did nothing but ring in Margaret's ears. She stared at Rick, but didn't really see him. Instead, she saw a magnificent bronze god, the companion from her dreams. The man she was prepared to do anything to help. She saw a desiccated corpse, ordering minions to kill Rick. They were the same. 

She let go of Rick's arm and fell back a couple of steps, away from Rick, away from Ardeth, and away from the fire. She felt the bile rise in the back her throat, and tears spring to the corners of her eyes. "I've been so foolish," she whispered, shaking her head. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, but she did none of those things. Instead, she sank down to sit on the sand, her elbows on her knees and her forehead braced on her hands. She could feel her skin burning, but at the same time she shivered in the night air. "So foolish," she repeated. "So foolish."

"Meg," said Rick, kneeling down in front of her. "What are you talking about? What have you been foolish about--" his voice stopped abruptly as the truth hit him too. "Your dreams," he said. "The man in your dreams. It's him, isn't it?" She nodded, too ashamed to lift her head to meet his eyes. Rick sat back on his heels. "It can't be."

She raised her head then, surprised at his denial. "Why not?"

"I killed him. Twice. I watched him die two years ago. He was mortal, there's no way he could have lived through that."

"Mortal?" Ardeth repeated suddenly, sitting down beside Rick, so now the three of them faced each other in a rough triangle.

"Yeah." Rick searched his mind, remembering things he didn't want to. "I remember the first time I punched him, I split his lip. He looked surprised, and his mouth was bleeding. Besides, if he'd had his powers, there was no way I could have held out against him as long as I did. He would have just picked me up and thrown me, and it would have been all over."

  
Ardeth said nothing for a moment, but his eyes darted back and forth from Rick to Margaret, his mind obviously moving quickly. "Of course," he then said softly, almost to himself.

"What?" Rick asked. Ardeth didn't answer him. Instead, he turned his attention to Margaret.

"Do you know ancient Egyptian?" She blinked at the seeming non sequitur, too surprised to do anything but answer.

"No."

"Yet you spoke it clearly just now, while you were dreaming."

"I did?" But as Margaret asked that question, she realized he was right. Imhotep always spoke to her in a language that she did not know, yet always understood perfectly. She had never realized what language that was until now. "You're right," she murmured.

Ardeth nodded. "Then it is as I feared. The creature's immortal spirit has found a home within you."

"What?" Margaret didn't know whether to scream in terror or laugh out loud. "Oh, come on, now. You can't be serious."

"He's always serious, Meg," 

Ardeth continued as if Rick hadn't even spoken. "You clearly spoke a language that you do not know. And when I awoke you from your dream--" his voice faltered for a millisecond, then returned as strong as ever, "you looked at me with his eyes."

"His eyes?" Margaret was confused. "I don't understand."

"His eyes in your face. It was only for the first moment when you left your dream, but he was there with you. Clearly his spirit has chosen you."

"Chosen me," she repeated dully. She shivered again; the night was getting colder, and she was too far from the fire. She rose to her feet and wandered back to the warmth. She held up her hands to the flames, then wrapped her arms around herself. "Chosen me. For what?"

Rick was also thinking about Ardeth's words. "He wants you to go to Hamunaptra, right?" he began slowly. "Do you know why? Has he told you?" She started to shake her head, but stopped, alarmed.

"You!" she breathed. "He hates you."

"Not surprised to hear that," Rick replied.

"We have to go back." She ran over to the other side of the fire and began packing up her bedroll. Rick and Ardeth exchanged a look, and then followed Margaret, who was packing her things as fast as she could. Rick caught her arm.

"Back?"

She nodded and tried to pull away, but he held her firm. "Back to Cairo. We have to get away, he wants to kill you. And you," she added, throwing a look in Ardeth's direction. "He sent soldiers after you, after you two and a woman. Evelyn? Was it Evelyn? In a basement, there was a fire, and guns and an explosion and you all ran up the stairs and away…" Her voice was high-pitched with hysteria. She tried to pull away again, frantic. "_Please._ He wants to kill you. He wants _me_ to kill you. I can't do that! Doesn't he know that?"

"No, he doesn't," broke in Ardeth. "He can't know what O'Connell means to you. That's good, don't you see," he asked, grasping her other arm. "He doesn't have control of your mind. He can't read your thoughts. You are still in control."

She stared at him, still afraid, still sickened. Ardeth said nothing else, but his eyes held hers, and she could feel the edge of her panic fade as his words sank in. "Yes," she finally said. Rick loosened his grip on her arm. "But please, we have to go back." She wasn't asking Rick this time. She was asking Ardeth. "If he wants me at Hamunaptra, then that's the last place I should go." Ardeth looked at her for a moment longer, then nodded, letting go of her arm.

"Then we shall start back at dawn," he said. He looked over at Rick, who nodded in agreement.

***

There was no way she was going back to sleep. Margaret actually wondered if she would ever sleep again. Imhotep was so real to her, even though Ardeth insisted he was just a spirit. What if the next time she dreamed, he came after her? What if she never woke up again? She had once thought herself in love, and now she was more afraid than she'd ever been before.

She had never been so wrong about so many things in her life. The first man, real or imaginary, to treat her as if she were special, as if she were beautiful, had been using her. He didn't want her to love him. He wanted her to kill for him. And meanwhile, a man she had doubted, a man she had suspected, had turned out to be someone Grandfather had wanted her to trust. So she had been wrong about him too. She almost groaned aloud when she thought of the way she'd spoken to him on this journey. What must he think of her?

This, however, she could fix. Pulling her blanket a little more tightly around her, she got to her feet and walked over to the fire. Ardeth was sitting in front of the flames, poking absently at the burning wood with a stray stick. About ten feet away Rick was dozing, rifle across his lap. She sat down beside the black-robed warrior, gazing into the fire with him for a few silent moments. When she spoke, her voice was very low.

"I owe you an apology."

He turned to her, a flicker of surprise on his face. He didn't say anything, but raised his eyebrows in a question. Margaret glanced his way, then her eyes fled back to the fire.

"I--" her voice faltered, so she cleared her throat and started again. "I was very wrong about something. When Grandfather died, I thought…well, I thought that you knew about it. That you did it. Killed him." She could feel her cheeks burning with shame while she spoke. Ardeth said nothing, but continued to look at her. "I was very angry with you, and so I've been very rude. Please accept my apology."

Ardeth turned his head away from her to look back at the dancing flames. "And now you have changed your mind?" Margaret nodded. "Why is that?"

She dropped her eyes to her lap for a moment, then raised them back up. "Because you are a Medjai. Grandfather believed in you. He wanted me to find you, to help you."

"Help me?" She thought she detected a little amusement in his tone. "How are you to help the Medjai?"

This was it. Praying she was doing the right thing, Margaret lifted her hand. In it, she held a small object wrapped in a silk scarf. "I am supposed to give you this," she said. She carefully loosened the scarf, and the puzzle box was laid bare on her palm. She extended her hand towards him in offering.

For a long moment Ardeth said nothing. He looked at the box with next to no expression on his face, and Margaret's heart sank. She'd been wrong again. This box meant nothing to him. It was a few more moments before she realized that his blank expression not indifference, but shock. He was stunned. Relief washed through her. The hand that held the box started to shake, and he brought his hands up to cradle hers, holding it steady. They both looked down at the octagonal box.

"The Key," he finally said, his voice little more than a sigh.

"Key? This is a key?" An alarm went off in the back of Margaret's mind. A gold book with a star shaped hole. _Hamunaptra…come to me. _"Oh, no." She looked up at Ardeth, afraid. "You have to take it. Destroy it. He wants the Key; he wants me to bring him the Key!" she suddenly realized.

He held on to her hand a little tighter, his eyes searching hers. "Why? Do you know why?"

She closed her eyes, trying to remember everything. "There was a book. A huge book. It looked like it was made out of gold. He was holding it and I had the Key. That's when he told me to go to him at Hamunaptra. But I can't! We have to go!"

"Are you certain?" Ardeth's voice was low, dangerous. "A gold book? Are you absolutely certain?" She nodded. With a determined look, he folded her fingers around the box, taking her other hand and placing it on top. "Keep this safe. Take it back to Cairo with O'Connell. I must go to Hamunaptra." He stood up and turned to walk away.

"Now?" Margaret cried, jerking Rick out of his sleep. He blinked.

"What is it?"

Ardeth turned. "The creature is at Hamunaptra. He has the Book of Amun-Ra. He must be stopped."

"Wait a second." Rick sat up, shaking off the drowsiness. "You said he's a spirit. What can he do with a book? He can't even pick it up. No hands."

Ardeth's expression grew even more severe, something Margaret had not thought possible. "Just as the Book of the Dead resurrects the dead, the Book of Amun-Ra steals life from the living. If he were able to read the correct incantation from the book, he could kill us all. We cannot take the chance that he will find that opportunity. He must be stopped," he repeated.

"And how are you going to do that?"

"I will join my men who are there. Together we will find a way to destroy the creature."

Rick rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, 'cause that worked so well the last time." He shook his head, thinking. "Evy killed him the first time by reading something from the gold book. If you'd only found the Key, we could've tried to get the book back from him and do that again." Ardeth's eyes went to Margaret, sitting by the fire. She looked back at him for a long moment, then looked at Rick. She opened her closed hands. Rick heaved a big sigh.

"Here we go again."


	8. Welcome to Hamunaptra

Chapter Eight

My muse is working overtime; she either loves this story or she's getting sick of it and wants me to finish! As always, feedback is very much loved and appreciated. Enjoy!

Chapter Eight

They didn't wait until dawn. Too restless to sleep, they broke camp almost immediately and set off for Hamunaptra. It wasn't until the sun was halfway up the sky and the heat of the day came upon them that Margaret realized she'd forgotten all about the turban she'd made the day before. Her hair had long since fallen out of its braid and tumbled down her back. She could feel tendrils sticking to her face and her neck as the morning wore on. She dug into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out the grayish-purple scarf that had enclosed the Key since the day Grandfather had given it to her. It wasn't a turban, but it was better than nothing. She gathered her hair back in her hands, using the scarf to tie it back and keep it off her neck. 

She let her hand drift back to her pocket. She could tell from the weight of her skirt that the Key was still there, right where she had left it, but she checked again anyway. She had tried once more to give it to Ardeth before they set off, but he had insisted that she carry it. He had said that he knew of no one who could keep it safer. For a moment, it had seemed like he was teasing her, but the dour warrior looked like the last person in the world to make a joke.

After a couple hours Ardeth slowed his horse, signaling with one hand for the other two to do the same.

"What's the matter?" Rick asked, reigning in his mount. "Why are we stopping? We're almost there."

Ardeth didn't answer at first; he simply stared ahead into the distance. "There's something..." he began. He shook his head. "I am not sure. But the air feels strange. As if a storm were coming, yet I see no sign of one on the horizon."

Margaret rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. This man could detect changes in the air? Now she'd heard everything. As soon as she had thought this, however, she felt the whisper of a breeze across her cheek. She turned her head towards it, and saw out of the corner of her eye that both men were doing the same. In the direction from which the breeze had come, she could see the barest dark blur. It was so faint that she couldn't even be sure that it was really there.

But it was. Ardeth leapt from his horse and grabbed the reins of Margaret's. "Get down." His voice was low and urgent. 

Margaret didn't understand. "What? Why--"

"Now." It was not a request, but a command, and she complied immediately. Rick had already done the same. Ardeth looked to Rick. "Sandstorm," he said.

"Really?" Margaret looked at the blur with renewed interest. She'd never seen a sandstorm before. Already the breeze had picked up, playing with the strands of hair that had escaped from her scarf. It would feel refreshing, if it weren't for the sting of sand granules hitting her skin from all sides. "I had no idea they moved so fast," she said. Ardeth looked over his shoulder at the approaching blur, and his eyes widened just a little.

"They don't," he replied, already forced to speak louder over the growing wind. She felt Rick grasp onto her arm, but couldn't see him very clearly through the swirling sand.

"No time for shelter," he yelled in her ear as the wind began to whistle. "We're going to have to wait it out." She nodded, wondering if he could even see her, and grabbed onto the arm holding hers. She felt another hand grip her other arm, and realized it was Ardeth. She clung to his arm with her other hand. The three of them huddled together in a circle, closing their eyes against the sand that blew at them from all directions.

***

The wind blew harder. Ardeth had lived through hundreds, even thousands of sandstorms during his life, but he had never seen one come on so fast that blew so violently. He held onto Rick's arm with his left hand, and Margaret's with his right, timing the storm in his head. In a few moments, the wind should start to die down. Soon, they should be able to let go of each other, mount their horses again, and continue to Hamunaptra. 

Just as the wind should have begun to slow down, it blew harder instead. And it blew in a strange current, pulling more strongly to Ardeth's right than to his left. Margaret jerked in his grasp, and her hand tightened on his arm. She jerked again, so strongly that he was nearly pulled off his feet. He could feel Rick leaning in the same direction, towards the woman.

__

The wind, he realized suddenly. _It's pulling her away._ He had a sudden flash of memory, of being strapped to the wing of an airplane, while O'Connell fired a machine gun at a wall of sand. Could it be…? Ardeth wasn't sure. He had never had to fight a disembodied spirit before.

"Meg!" He could barely hear Rick's shout over the howling wind. Margaret was being pulled harder, and as Ardeth struggled to keep his hold on her arm, he realized he would never be able to do it. She'd already been torn from Rick's grasp, and she struggled wildly to try to bring her free arm around to hold onto him. Ardeth let go of Rick and clamped down with both hands on Margaret's arm, trying to serve as her anchor. Her eyes stared right into his, frantic, and he knew that his had to look the same. The harder he held onto her, the harder the wind blew, tearing her out of his grasp.

"Margaret!" He shouted her name as he realized he was no longer holding her. He threw himself forward, making a desperate grab. For a second, his hand was in her hair, the strands slipping through his fingers before he could close them. As he fell to the ground the wind stopped, the storm ending as suddenly as it had begun.

A few feet away, Rick sat up, spitting sand out of his mouth and shaking it out of his hair. He looked around. "Meg…?" He looked over to Ardeth. "Where is she?"

The warrior shook his head, looking down to his hands, which held onto a grayish-purple silk scarf. "She is gone," he replied. "The storm. It took her away somehow."

Rick hauled himself to his feet, and held out a hand to help Ardeth do the same. "Well, come on, then," he said. "Three guesses where she is. Let's get going."

***

There was sand in her mouth. That was the first thing Margaret was aware of, before she even opened her eyes. She could feel it, rough and gritty on her tongue, against the roof of her mouth, even under her gums. She rolled over onto her back, spitting out sand as she did so. She blinked stupidly up at the sky for a few moments before she realized that she had no idea where she was, or how she had gotten there. She let her mind drift: what had just happened? She was riding with Rick and Ardeth. It was hot. They stopped, because a sandstorm was coming.

She sat up slowly, coughing up more sand. She remembered the sandstorm, remembered holding on to Rick and Ardeth for dear life, and then she remembered lying here with sand in her mouth. But where was here?

She looked around. It appeared to be an excavation site of some kind. A few pits of varying sizes were dug here and there. Some had ropes that led down to their depths, and long-abandoned digging tools were half-buried in the sand. She looked to her right, and her heart stopped.

Not ten feet away from her, a black-robed warrior lay face down, not moving.

"Ardeth," she breathed. "No…" She half-crawled, half-scuttled across the sand towards him. She touched him on the shoulder. He still didn't move. She put her hands under his arm and turned him over.

It wasn't Ardeth. His hair was black and his face was tattooed in a manner similar to Ardeth's, but it wasn't him. She sat back on her heels, weak with relief until she remembered that she was still sitting there with a dead man. She got a little unsteadily to her feet, taking another good look at her surroundings. The ground around her was dotted sporadically with similar black-robed bodies, all face down and still.

"_My men are at Hamunaptra,_" Ardeth had said. And they still were, it seemed. They were just no longer alive.

"Welcome to Hamunaptra, little one." She whirled at the sound of the too-familiar voice, looking behind her. But the voice hadn't come from behind; there was nothing there.

"Your dreams are about to come true," the voice said again. She turned in a tight circle, but saw no one. And in a flash, she knew why. The voice was inside her. She was hearing the words in her head, echoing as if they were bouncing off the inside of her skull.

"No," she said, her voice little more than a whimper. "My dreams aren't real. You don't want me. You want me to kill for you, to kill Rick. I can't do that."

"Of course you can." Imhotep's voice was as loving as it had always been, but there was a hardness there too, like steel. It scared her. "What are these men to you? What is anyone to you? You are alone in this world."

"No! That's not true. He's…" Margaret felt a little ridiculous, like she was arguing with herself. "Rick's like my brother. He loves me."

"He is nothing." The voice was only steel now, sharp and cold. "He does not love you. If he did, he would have come for you, but he did not. He has a family of his own. He does not need you. He does not want you." She shook her head against his words, but thoughts slipped unbidden through her mind, curling through her confusion like a poisonous snake. Imhotep was right; Rick already had a family. He didn't need her, didn't think of her as a part of himself the way she had come to feel about him. She'd been kidding herself; casting Rick in the role of a big brother, a role he had no desire to play. She was nothing to him.

"And the Medjai," the disembodied voice continued. "The Medjai is less than nothing. He thinks nothing of you. He would just as soon see you dead as draw your next breath. He cares for his sacred missions and little else. There is no friendship in his heart." 

He's right, Margaret thought, dazed. She'd stopped suspecting Ardeth. Why? He'd killed Grandfather, she was sure of it. And he wanted to kill her too. She nodded her head slowly. Imhotep was right. She was alone in this world. She always had been.

Her gaze was drawn downwards. At her feet lay a huge book, its gold cover glinting in the midday sun. The book from her dream. Slowly, she sank to her knees until she was kneeling in front of it.

"You know what you must do," the voice said.

She nodded dumbly, her head bobbing like a puppet on strings. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Key. Pressing on the secret places on it, she made it spring open. She turned it over, and placed the Key in the star-shaped hole on the cover of the book. It fit perfectly. She turned it, and the claws that held the book shut sprang open. She lifted up the heavy gold cover, and the book was open before her.

"Now," Imhotep said. "Read."


	9. The Incantation

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

"Yes," Margaret repeated. "Read." Imhotep was right. That was what she was supposed to do. She was meant to help him, to destroy those who would harm him, who had harmed him in the past. Her mind felt fuzzy, as if she weren't thinking too clearly, but she found she didn't really need to think. She just needed to read.

She looked down at the pages in front of her. Her fingers traced over the hieroglyphics on the page, as if she was blind and was trying to read them through touch. A single thought pricked through the fuzz around her brain, making her stop and think.

"I can't," she said out loud, answering the long-dead priest that had taken up residence somewhere inside her head. "I can't read ancient Egyptian. I don't know the language." She felt a twinge of despair. "I can't help you."

A low rumble of laughter echoed through her head. "With me by your side," Imhotep said, "you can do all things." Her vision wavered for a moment, and when she looked down again, the words were clear to her. They hadn't changed; the book was still written in ancient Egyptian. But it all suddenly made sense. She could read it.

"Yes," she breathed. Her fingers skimmed over the symbols. There was an incantation that Imhotep wanted her to find, wanted her to read. It would be a spell to destroy them all. All of those who had gone, who had left her. Now they would be the ones who would know what it was to lose everything.

But that pinprick of a thought had created a hole in the fuzz. That hole widened as Margaret scanned the first page of the book. Imhotep wasn't a man. He was a monster, a monster that had tried to kill Rick. That still wanted to kill Rick. In her mind's eye she could see Rick, as clearly as if he was standing before her: a thirteen year old boy hugging a six year old girl, drying her tears. _I'll take care of you. _Throwing up his hands in the library. _Okay, so my French is a little rusty._ Introducing her to Ardeth Bay at the hotel. _My little sister._

Imhotep was wrong. Rick did love her. She could never hurt him.

She sat back on her heels, leaning a little away from the book. Almost as if on cue, she heard hoofbeats in the distance, approaching the ruins of the city. She looked up a slope of sand to a small ridge, and saw two riders stop there. She rose to her feet, shading her eyes with her hand.

"Rick," she said softly, smiling. He had come for her, after all.

"No!" Imhotep's voice was loud, barking out the word so harshly that she could feel it rattling in her skull. "You are mine. You will read." His voice was a command. The fuzz around her brain strengthened, tried to maintain its grip. 

But the hole in the fuzz had grown so large that it no longer had any effect. "No," she said calmly, taking a step in the direction of the ridge. "I am going home." She took another step.

The pain was blinding. Everything went white, and there was nothing in the world but the pain in her head. She clapped her hands to her head, crying out in agony. She staggered and fell to the ground as the pain took over everything: her arms, her legs, everything she was. For a few moments she didn't move, just waited for the pain to subside.

Suddenly, she realized she _was_ moving. Her arms pushed her off the ground, her legs got under her and she stood up. But she was doing none of it. Her body moved independently of her mind. She struggled internally, trying to make her arms move, trying to walk in the direction of the ridge and to Rick. But instead she walked back over to kneel in front of the gold book. Her hands turned the heavy gold page, and her eyes began to scan again, searching for an incantation.

He was doing it. Imhotep had gained control over her body, and was doing it all. She would read from the book whether she wanted to or not.

***

Rick had never ridden so hard in his life. Imhotep had Meg, and he was going to get her back. It was as simple as that. Ardeth apparently understood his sense of urgency, for he rode just as fast, just as hard, leading the way to the ruins of Hamunaptra. 

They came to a stop at the edge of a ridge. Rick looked around in surprise. Somehow, he had expected Hamunaptra to look the same, even though he knew that it had sunk into the sand more than ten years ago. The place had been the stuff of many a nightmare for him over the years, and now it looked so...ordinary. Like any other dig site.

Except for all the dead Medjai warriors, whose bodies littered the ground. Rick saw Ardeth's back stiffen as he took in the sight of his fallen men, but otherwise the Medjai chieftain said nothing about it. "There." Ardeth pointed down into the ruins. Rick followed his line of sight, and there she was. Standing there alone, looking in their direction, one hand protecting her eyes from the glare of the sun. He raised his hand to wave as she took a step toward them.

"Are you all…" he started to call out, when suddenly she collapsed to the ground with a scream, her hands pressed to her head. He swore, jumping off his horse and running to the edge of the ridge, Ardeth joining him an instant later. "What's going on?" Ardeth shook his head, clearly at a loss. Then, as suddenly as she had fallen, she got up again, turning away from them and kneeling back down onto the sand, bending over something.

They half-ran, half-slid down the slope to where she was kneeling in the sand. Close up now, they could see that she was hunched over the Book of Amun-Ra, which was open in front of her. Her fingers moved over the pages, turning them, searching for something.

"She's got the book," Rick said. "What is she doing?"

At the sound of his voice, Margaret's head snapped up, looking straight at them. Rick gasped in shock. The woman that looked up at him looked nothing like the timid little girl from the orphanage. Her hair flowed around her shoulders in wild tangles. Her riding skirt was torn; her once-white blouse was stained brown with sand and dirt, and one sleeve hung down her arm, clinging to the shoulder seam by a couple of threads. Her gentle demeanor was gone, replaced by a look that was almost feral. But what startled Rick the most were her eyes. They were dark brown, and stared at him in cold hatred.

"Oh, my God," he whispered. "It's--"

"The Creature," Ardeth confirmed. "He's taken control of her body. She is forced to do his bidding."

"But she's still… She's still _in_ there, isn't she?"

Ardeth shrugged. "It is possible that he still does not have control of her mind. But we cannot be sure."

"He's making her read from it, isn't he?" Ardeth didn't need to answer; they both could tell what was happening. "He makes her read for him, and he gets his revenge."

"That is the plan."

"Well, we've got to stop him. That's what we do, right? What we always do? We stop him and save the world. How do we do it this time?"

Ardeth didn't reply. He just watched Margaret, whose attention was back on the book again. Her face was obscured by the tangle of faded brown hair that fell all around her, unchecked by pins or ribbon. Rick looked at Margaret for another moment, then back at Ardeth. And then he knew.

"No," he said. "There's got to be another way." He knew, however, that there wasn't.

Ardeth shook his head, his eyes still on Margaret. "The spirit is fully inhabiting the body. To destroy the spirit, we must destroy the body. We must kill her."

Rick shook his head. His mind raced, trying to think of a reason not to do this. "We can't. He'll stop us, won't he?" A thought occurred to him. "Wait. Why hasn't he already done something? Why didn't he just pick us up and throw us around the second we got here?"

Ardeth shook his head again, never breaking his gaze. Rick wanted him to stop looking at Margaret. Stop planning her death. "I am not sure. Inhabiting her, controlling her movements may take all the power he has. Perhaps he does not want to waste his strength on us."

Rick looked at her again. He saw the small, frightened child in the Cairo orphanage. The girl who had cried the day he left. He saw the tall, yet still frightened woman in Dr. Stuart's office, the day they had met again. He saw her arch her eyebrow at him, teasing him about his bad French. He saw her sitting bravely in front of the fire, her hair down around her shoulders, the Key in her hands.

He willed her to lift her head again, to be herself. To not have Imhotep's eyes. But the more he thought about it, the more he knew the truth. She was gone. And if they didn't stop her now, she could kill them all.

He drew his pistol, cocking the hammer back as he aimed. His hand shook as he raised the gun, and he had to bring up his other hand to brace it, to hold it steady. Then he found that he couldn't see her well enough to get a good sight, and he realized that it was because he had tears in his eyes. He blinked them back and tried again. And again. Finally with a roar of frustration, the flung the gun away, turning his back to her.

"I can't," he choked. "I'm sorry. I just can't." He felt a hand on his arm.

"I do not expect you to, my friend." Ardeth's voice sounded heavy, as if he were very tired. "I shall do it." Rick didn't look up, he couldn't. He just nodded, and the hand left his arm. Ardeth had walked away. To kill Meg.

***

__

"He doesn't have control of your mind," Ardeth had said the night before. _"He can't read your thoughts. You are still in control."_

So far, that seemed to be the case. Although she couldn't stop her hands from turning the pages, couldn't stop her eyes from scanning the ancient words, it was still her mind doing the actual reading, the actual digesting of what those words meant. She knew what Imhotep was looking for: the incantation Ardeth had mentioned last night. The one that would allow him to have his revenge. But she was looking for something else entirely. While her eyes read for Imhotep's spell, her mind searched instead for the incantation Rick had mentioned. The one Evelyn had used to send Imhotep's immortal soul back to the underworld. If she could find that one and read it instead, she could defeat him. It was the only thing she could think of to do, imprisoned within her own body like this.

She heard Rick cry out, but didn't even try to look up again. She couldn't waste the time, couldn't waste the effort. She had to keep looking. 

***

Ardeth didn't want to kill Margaret either. As he walked across the sand, closing the distance between them, he remembered all the times he had planned to do just that in his search for the Key. But that all seemed so long ago, when she didn't even have a name. Now she had one. She wasn't a mouse. She was a woman. She was clumsy. She had a body that ached after a long day of riding, and soft gray eyes that looked afraid after a nightmare. She was shy and timid, like the mouse he'd thought her to be. But she was also strong; she hadn't balked at bringing the Key to Hamunaptra, even when she realized the danger they faced. Above all these things, Rick O'Connell loved her, and Ardeth knew that it would break his friend's heart to watch her die.

Yet it had to be done. Ardeth just hoped that Rick chose not to watch. He also hoped that he could ignore the feeling in his own heart, that killing her would pain him too. 

He stopped walking to stand right in front of Margaret. She had paid no attention to his approach; all of her concentration was focused on the book. He had to do this now. 

He drew his knife from his belt. A gun could miss, and cause him to have to shoot twice, which he didn't think even he could do. It would have to be this way.

Ardeth placed his hand on her head, stroking her hair back in what was almost a caress. When he had enough of her hair between his fingers, he tightened his grip and pulled, yanking Margaret up onto her knees, her head back, her throat bared. The point of his knife touched her neck, just beneath her right ear. Just one quick slash and this would all be over. He pressed down and felt the knife begin to slide into her flesh. Ardeth gritted his teeth. He wanted to close his eyes, didn't want to see what he was doing. Instead, he forced himself to look into the eyes of the Creature.

The brown eyes had slid shut at the first touch of the knife, and her mouth opened with a gasp of pain. Ardeth tightened his grip on her hair, willing the Creature to look him in the face.

The eyes opened, and Ardeth froze. They were her eyes again, light gray and afraid. But as his brain registered this, they were brown again. Then gray. Then brown. During this moment of hesitation, the knife did not move from where it had entered her flesh. A small stream of blood began to run down the blade and over his fingers. He had to finish this, move the knife across her throat. But her eyes… 

Her eyes still locked on his, she began to speak. "_Kadeesh mal…"_

An incantation. He'd been wrong to hesitate. They were doomed unless he finished this now. He tensed the muscles in his forearm to lay her throat open.

***

She'd found it. The incantation Evelyn had used. She had to speak it. She had to get control of her mouth long enough to get the words out. That was going to be hard. She'd managed to lift her head once when she'd heard Rick's voice, but Imhotep had quickly forced it back down again. Rick's presence gave her courage. He was counting on her; she had to do this.

A hand touched her hair, lightly at first. Then the fingers dug in deeper, gliding across her scalp, sweeping her hair back. She was just starting to enjoy the feeling when the hand grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her up, so hard she felt her eyes water. She was pulled up on her knees, her head up and back. She stared up into the face of her attacker.

Ardeth. Of course. So he was going to kill her after all. From the corner of her eye she saw a flash of metal, and almost instantly she felt a sharp sting on the right side of her neck. He had a knife. And he was slitting her throat.

The pain must have cut through the control Imhotep had over her body, because she was able to close her eyes and gasp out loud as she felt the knife enter her neck. Or perhaps Imhotep was doing that; perhaps he felt the pain too. She had to do this. Even if it was with her dying breath, she had to get control of herself long enough to recite the incantation. If she could send him back, he would be gone for good this time. She could save them all.

If she could only do it before Ardeth killed her. She felt his hand tighten its grip on her hair, as if he would pull it out. With a strength she didn't know she had, she forced her eyes open. To her surprise, her eyelids snapped open on her command. She looked into Ardeth's eyes, willing him to see not the Creature that was controlling her body, but her.

It worked. He hesitated, the knife still in her throat. He stared down at her, his own eyes anguished. But he had stopped the killing stroke.

__

Trust me, she begged him with her eyes. Wasting no more time in thinking, she began to speak.

"_Kadeesh mal…"_

The knife dug further into her skin. She gasped in pain, but focused on getting all of the words out before it was too late.

***

Rick looked up when Ardeth stopped in front of the kneeling woman. He watched his friend run his fingers through Margaret's hair, then pull her up. He winced, barely able to see through the tears welling up in his eyes. The sunlight glinted off of Ardeth's knife as he raised it. So he was going to cut her throat, then. He dropped his head into his hands. Part of him wanted to watch; as the only thing Margaret had that resembled a relative, he should witness her death. But he couldn't do it. He just couldn't.

Suddenly, he heard something he never thought he would again. Margaret's voice.

"_Kadeesh mal…"_

His head snapped up. He knew that phrase. He was sure that he knew that phrase. Faster than he could consciously think, he knew what Margaret was doing. She wasn't gone.

But she was about to be. Ardeth was about to slit her throat. 

There was no way he could reach them in time. She would be dead before he got to Ardeth's side to stop him. So instead, Rick O'Connell threw everything he had, all of his strength into one howl.

"ARDETH! NO!"

***

Ardeth's head moved just a little, an involuntary jerk, at Rick's yell. That wasn't a cry of grief. Rick wanted him to stop.

He knew he should do his duty as a guardian of Hamunaptra, and that meant killing Margaret before she could finish speaking. But what if he was wrong? There had already been one innocent death in all of this, could he really add another?

Did he have a choice? As leader of the Medjai, he didn't. He was sworn to protect mankind against the Creature, and that was what he must do. Even if it meant that she should die.

But her eyes. They were light gray now, not brown, they ran with tears, and Ardeth couldn't look away from them. Knife still digging into her neck, his hand wet with her blood, he looked helplessly into her eyes, and realized too late that the choice was already made. For she was already speaking again.

"_Kadeesh mal._" She repeated the first phrase, never taking her eyes away from his. "_Pared oos, pared oos._"

***

Through the haze of pain, Margaret heard Rick yelling something. She couldn't see him. All she could see were Ardeth's eyes, and the decision he was wrestling with was as plain to her as if they were discussing it over dinner. He didn't know if he should kill her. He didn't know the incantation she was saying.

She had to use this time. This moment of hesitation was her only chance. She forced her mouth to work for her again, forced her eyes to speak for her. Somewhere in her skull, she could hear Imhotep's voice roaring, realizing he'd been tricked. Her arms moved involuntarily; he was trying to regain control of her body. She paid no attention. She focused instead on Ardeth's eyes, drawing the strength she needed from them to recite the rest of the incantation.

"_Kadeesh mal. Pared oos, pared oos_."

***

That was the right one. The one Evy had used. She'd done it. Rick sank to the ground in relief.

Which was when Margaret began to scream.

***

She had said the incantation. She had killed them. He had failed. Ardeth let the bloody knife fall from his hand to the ground. His muscles tensed; he braced himself, waiting to die.

But he didn't.

Margaret's face twisted in pain, her eyes clouded with fear. Before Ardeth's eyes, she suddenly appeared to be suffused in blue. Pure blue light surrounded her, came from inside of her, swirled all around her. He dropped to his knees, his hand in her hair moving from a threatening grip to cradle the back of her head. She swayed a little, as if she was having trouble keeping her balance, and he steadied her with both hands. Then she swayed more, her body rocking from side to side, forward and back. Suddenly, her back arched, and her mouth opened to the sky in a soul-scorching scream. Ardeth locked his arms around her, supporting her back, as the blue light streamed upwards from her body, forming itself into the vague outline of a man's face before dissipating completely, vanishing into the cloudless sky. 

Margaret's body fell as if it had been dropped, and she hung limply in the circle of Ardeth's arms. He lowered her carefully to the ground, hearing Rick's running footsteps behind him. For a heartbeat, all he could do was stare dumbly at her. At the ragged slash in her neck, at her torn blouse, stained with dirt and blood. There was so much blood. On her throat, in her hair, on his hands. All hers. He had done that.

Then Rick was there. The blue cloth he always wore around his neck was now in his hand, pressed against Margaret's neck, slowing the bleeding. Rick was there, to put his fingers to the other side of her throat, and to close his eyes in thanks when he found her pulse. Rick was there, to smooth her hair away from her face, and to check to make sure that she was otherwise unhurt.

After what seemed like an eternity, Margaret's eyes opened. Her gaze settled on Rick, leaning above her. She started to speak, tried to move, but Rick shook his head, stopping her.

"You're going to be all right. You did it, Meg. You killed him. You did it all yourself." His voice was quiet, soothing, but pride was evident in his tone. She started to nod her head, but instead cried out in pain, her hand going uncertainly to her neck, where Rick still pressed the cloth to the cut.

"Lie back," he said. "It's okay. It looks a lot worse than it is. We just need to get you cleaned up." She relaxed obediently, closing her eyes again. He took the cloth away, carefully, and gave a low whistle.

"Damn." He looked up at Ardeth, who cursed himself in Arabic. To think that he had done this to her...

Margaret's eyes flickered open again, and she looked past Rick to Ardeth. "Such language." Her voice was a whisper, so quiet that Ardeth didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe in order to hear her. Her lips twitched in a semblance of a smile. "There are ladies present." Chiding him had apparently taken the last of her energy, for she then slipped into unconsciousness.


	10. Family and Farewell

Chapter Ten

My sincerest thanks to everyone for reading my little story. I worked hard on it and I hope you like it. Thanks especially to Rebecca for all of her support and encouragement.

Chapter Ten

With a whoop of joy, the children scattered from the classroom and out into the afternoon sun. Margaret smiled as she watched them go, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She sat down behind her desk, suddenly feeling very tired. Which was to be expected, really, she thought, one hand going to the small bandage at her neck. She'd lost a lot of blood in the desert, after all, and hadn't fully regained consciousness until they were back on the riverboat and she was under a doctor's care. Ardeth had gone; Rick told her that he'd seen them safely to the boat, and had left to rejoin his people, bringing the Key and the Book of Amun-Ra with him. The doctor had told her it would be some time before her strength fully returned. 

Everything had returned to normal. Rick had finished up the business he'd dropped to take her to Hamunaptra, and was leaving in the morning. She went back to teaching school and giving tours of the museum, just as she had before. She spent her evenings in her small room at the mission, reading or knitting. Her dreams were neither exciting nor frightening. Yes, everything had returned to normal.

Except for Margaret. She had changed. She was restless; she was depressed. How could she be content with schoolrooms, books, and knitting needles when she had slept in the desert by a campfire and helped save the world? How could she continue to live her life alone when she'd tasted what it was to have family? How could she live and die a spinster when she'd been rescued from a nightmare by a Medjai warrior, in whose eyes she had found the strength to defeat the evil that had threatened them all?

She shook her head, impatient with herself. These kinds of thoughts did her no good. There was no point in wishing for things that she could not have. She straightened the papers on her desk and rose to her feet.

The door to the schoolroom opened, startling her. She looked up to see Rick standing there, looking a little uncomfortable, holding a large envelope. She smiled and beckoned him inside. He looked around nervously as he entered.

"Boy, this is someplace I thought I'd never see again," he said with mock trepidation. "Not voluntarily, anyway."

Margaret chuckled. "It's not so bad. I rather like it." She cast a glance around the room where she had spent the last twenty-two years of her life, in one capacity or another. "At least I used to," she sighed quietly. Why did everything look so different now that she was back? She turned her attention back to Rick. "So are you ready to go home? For real this time?"

He nodded. "Pretty much. I have one more little detail to take care of. Kind of a last minute thing, it ended up taking longer than I thought."

"Really?" Margaret's brow furrowed. "Was there a problem with some of the artifacts? I could have helped you, you know." He hadn't said anything until now about this. In fact, now that she thought about it, he hadn't said much of anything to her these past few days.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." He looked a little more nervous, and started to fidget with the envelope in his hands. "I need to talk to you about something."

"All right." Margaret sat back down. A small feeling of dread formed in her stomach; his face was very serious. What was the problem?

Rick grabbed one of the student's chairs, turned it around, and sat down, his large frame making the chair look even smaller than it was. "Do you remember what I said before, about how I'd bring you over for a visit sometime, after I got back home?" Margaret nodded. "Well, there's been a change in plans."

"There has?"

"Yeah. I'm not going to do that."

"Oh." Margaret's voice was small as she sat back in her chair. She looked down at the desk, the papers in front of her starting to blur with disappointed tears. She should have known. Imhotep had been right after all; Rick had a family of his own. He didn't need her.

But Rick was still talking. She swallowed her desolation and forced herself to listen. "Yeah, see, when we got back, there was this telegram from Evelyn. The whole thing was pretty much her idea, really, and it took me a few days to get the paperwork together--"

"Rick?" Margaret interrupted. He looked at her. "What are you talking about? What paperwork?"

He snorted. "I knew I'd explain this all wrong." He dropped the envelope in front of her. "This is for you. You're coming back to London with me. Tomorrow."

She looked blankly at the envelope, then at Rick. "I am?"

He nodded. "If you want to."

She touched the envelope, hesitantly, but didn't open it. Her brow furrowed. "I can't." She looked up at Rick. "I can't just leave like this. Who will teach here?"

Rick waved his hand around, in a gesture meant to encompass the entire building. "It's a mission. They have nuns here. They got along without you before, they will again."

She shook her head, trying to get her mind around what was happening. "But… I don't have a passport or anything. I can't get one by tomorrow."

"What do you think I've been doing the past few days? Here--" He walked over to her side of the desk and opened the envelope for her, spilling the contents across the desk. There were papers, tickets, and a passport inside. He picked up the passport and handed it to her. "It's not really legal till you sign it, but I was able to do all the rest; the forms and stuff. Sister Mary Grace gave me the picture. First nice thing she ever did for me."

It was her picture in the passport. And her name. The tickets were all to foreign cities that connected together, with London as the final destination. She looked up at him with astonished eyes. "You did all this for me?"

Rick squatted down so they were eye to eye. He took her hand. "Meg," he said, suddenly very serious. "I know we're not really related. We don't have the same name or anything like that. But we're family. We knew it when we were kids, and I knew it when I first saw you again. But I never realized what that meant till we were at Hamunaptra and you… you almost…" He reached one hand up and lightly touched the bandage. He shook his head. "I know it's all really sudden, and if you need time to think about it that's okay. But I wanted to show you how serious I am about this. You're my family; you belong with us."

Margaret pressed the passport to her heart. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and wasn't sure which emotion would win. She settled for grinning foolishly while tears trickled down her cheeks. This was all too good to be true; things like this didn't happen to her. Her mind raced, searching for the dark cloud in this silver lining. "But what will I do in London?" she asked.

Rick shrugged, waving off the question as insignificant. "Whatever you want. They have kids in England, you know, you can teach there. You speak so many languages, I'm sure Evelyn could get you a job at the museum. Or you could hang around the house all day and do nothing, like my brother-in-law. That doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're coming." He pressed her hand, waiting for her answer. "Are you?"

She nodded, swiping at the tears on her cheeks. She wanted to thank him, but she knew that there was no way she could put her joy into words. She suddenly turned to the desk and began to rummage through the drawers.

"What are you looking for?"

"My pen," she replied. Finding it, she turned to him with a smile, holding up the passport. "I want everything to be in order when I use this tomorrow, don't I?"

***

It really didn't take Margaret long to pack. She didn't have very many clothes, and Rick had told her that she'd end up with a whole new wardrobe in London, anyway. He'd also told her not to worry about books; they were already well stocked in that department, it seemed. And she'd lived so frugally at the mission that she didn't really have much else. All of her worldly possessions were with her in two carpetbags as she stood in the twilight outside of the hotel. She was spending her last night in Cairo in her own room at the hotel, as they were catching an early boat in the morning.

She had stopped, across the street from the hotel, to look up at the third floor one more time. The balcony was empty; the room was currently vacant. She thought about all of those evenings spent watching the sunset. All the stories.

"Oh, Grandfather," she sighed. He would have loved this story: the story of the puzzle box, and the adventure it had sparked. An adventure that ended in a trip to London, a new family, and a new life. She smiled as she imagined telling him the story, and envisioned his delighted reaction.

There was a movement beside her in the shadows to her right, but she didn't turn her head. She wasn't startled when a man, dressed all in black, moved to stand beside her and also look up at the balcony.

"You said once that you owed me an apology," Ardeth Bay said. He shook his head. "None was necessary." He was quiet for a moment but Margaret didn't speak, sensing he had not finished.

"You were right to suspect me," he continued. "I was at the hotel that night to search for the Key. I believed that you had it, or the old man. I wished to search for it without your knowledge." He paused again. "The tea that he drank that night was drugged. I can only guess that it, combined with the dose he had already taken, was too much for him and killed him." Margaret still said nothing, but a quick intake of breath and a single tear on her cheek betrayed her thoughts.

"I had no intention that he should die. I sent for his doctor the moment I realized," Ardeth finished. "But I killed him all the same."

Margaret said nothing for a moment, her eyes still trained on the third floor balcony. Then she shook her head. "No," she said. "It was an accident. Neither of us killed him, and yet we both did." A second tear joined the first, and she smiled softly. "It was a good death, really. He watched the sunset, and then he fell asleep. We should all wish for so peaceful an end," she said, her hand going to her throat.

He turned to her then. Brushing the hair away from her shoulder, he looked at the small bandage on the side of her throat, a few inches under her right ear. He raised his hand to touch the bandage, his fingers briefly covering her own. This time, she didn't shy away from him. In fact, she suddenly felt a little flushed, and she had some trouble catching her breath. His fingers traced the gauze on her neck, barely touching her skin, seriously interfering with her breathing now. "Does it pain you still?"

She turned to him, seeing the regret in his eyes. "No. The wound was not too serious. The doctor says I will probably have a scar, but there was no permanent damage."

"A scar." His eyes hardened in self-recrimination. His hand was still on her neck, his thumb stroking the bandage as if he would erase the wound he had given her. The back of her neck felt warm where he touched her, and she wanted to lean into him. Instead, she covered his hand with hers in a gesture of comfort.

"It doesn't matter. I think I might like it; it'll make me look more dangerous. I might get an eyepatch next. Possibly a parrot." His hand curled around hers in gratitude. He didn't smile, but the hardness left his eyes. That was good enough.

"You are leaving Cairo," he said, gesturing down to her bags. "Joining the O'Connells in London?" 

"I am," she said with a pleased smile. "I am going home with Rick." Home. She was still getting used to that word. She liked it.

"Perhaps you will listen to some advice?" She nodded. "When you are in London, do not let O'Connell talk you into taking the bus." Now Ardeth did smile, and Margaret smiled along with him without really knowing why. But his smile was so infectious, so inviting, that she couldn't help herself. 

Now he was holding something in his hand, an object that he put into hers. She looked down at it, then looked back up at Ardeth.

"Why are you giving me this?" she asked. All this time he had been looking for the Key, and now he was giving it back to her? That made no sense.

He folded her fingers around the small box, just as he had done that night in front of the campfire. "I told you in the desert that I know of no one who will keep it safer," he said, his eyes smiling at last. "It is still true. You successfully kept it hidden from the leader of the Medjai, even when he traveled at your side."

She raised her eyebrow at him. "Only because you never looked in my knitting bag." 

He surprised them both by laughing out loud. "Then put it there again," he replied. "And continue to keep it safe." She nodded.

He took her hand again and bowed over it, much as he had when they had first met. Only this time, he brushed the back of her hand with his lips, and Margaret felt a small shock of heat travel up her arm. He looked once more into her eyes. "I wish you a safe journey. You are a remarkable woman, Margaret, and I am honored to have known you."

She stared back, momentarily forgetting the English language. Or any other language. "Thank you," she finally said. Not knowing what else to say, she simply said goodbye, taking up her bags and walking away from him and into the hotel.

***

Ardeth watched her until she was safely inside the hotel lobby. He pulled from his belt a grayish-purple silk scarf. It looked a little worse for wear: a little tattered, stained with travel dust and a few drops of blood. A few blondish-brown hairs still clung to it. He looked at it for a few moments, running the silk through his fingers. He had had every intention of returning the scarf to its owner, and yet, he had not done so. If someone had stopped him and asked him why, he was not sure that he could have produced an answer. He just knew that he had no desire to let it go.

He replaced the scarf carefully in his belt and walked away into the night.

The End.


End file.
